


DONE with Love

by Lucifuge5



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, M/M, MovieAU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First-time author Benton Fraser has decided NEVER to fall in love again. Quirky journalist Ray Kowalski thinks the Canadian writer is wrong and comes up with a plan to call his bluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DONE with Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fraser Meets Ray challenge and based on the 2003 version of _Down with Love_. I am humbled in thanks to the following group of people: the members of the Ficfinishing comm for bribing me with virtual cupcakes until I had completed a first draft; my First Readers, Cyberducks and Mizface , whose support was crucial on getting this story to the finish line!; Finally, my Beta, the very lovely Miss_zedem , to whom I am grateful for all of her help in making this fic readable and coherent.

Benton Fraser's first impressions about Chicago centered on the city's noise levels and on how people were less reticent than what he was used to over in the Northwest Territories. Nearly everyone appeared to be in enough of a hurry to be lax about good manners. Of course, his perspective was understandably subjective once he took into account his present surroundings. He adjusted his backpack and relaxed his facial muscles into maintaining a neutral look as he walked out of the terminal.

He was still trying to placate the feeling of inward suffocation, the result of Air Canada's flight attendants' overt attentions towards him. There was a brief flare of alarm after takeoff in Canada when he accidentally overheard two of them practically shriek with pleasure at the fact that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. There isn't any point to it, he felt like telling them with very little malice. Love, it seemed, was not for him. Not since . . . . Rather than dwell in what he couldn't fix, Fraser followed the crowd of people up to a point, choosing to continue to walk on the carpeted floor instead of using the electric walkways. The fact that some of his fellow travelers were looking at him like he was deranged was not lost on him.

It didn't take long, once he studied the airport map by the Starbucks in Concourse F, to find the Air Canada counter. He needed to make sure that Diefenbaker had arrived safely. Nora, a young woman with a bright demeanor, assured him that his 'dog' companion was in the quarantine kennels at the present time. She gave him all the necessary contact information and advised him that his 'dog' was going to be released to him in two days' time. He suppressed the need to correct her as to Dief's genus, thanked her kindly and went on his way to the taxi station.

Thirty minutes went by, with Fraser trying not to pass out from inhaling exhaust fumes, before he finally managed to get into a taxi and zip his way to Frobisher and Co. Books. A walk would have been more refreshing and welcomed considering he had not been able to stretch his legs while in the last airplane, but punctuality had its merits. He had a very important 2 p.m. appointment with the publisher to consider. Even after booking the most direct flights he could find, spending nearly 14 hours flying south (_not _counting the seven-hour layover in Calgary during which he slept at a hotel near the airport), he knew he would end up arriving at the publisher's offices with barely any time to spare. Margaret Thatcher, his agent, had hinted at the American editorial staff thinking of him as some kind of Canadian country rube, which made him eager to set a solid and professional first impression.

Afro-Cuban music flared out of the cab's speakers as soon as he gave directions to the city proper. The driver, a man whose accent denoted some Caribbean heritage, nodded at him as he guided them out of the airport. Fraser's stomach gurgled. Maybe there was a type of eatery near the Frobisher building. He knew he should have eaten something more substantial than the light snack that was offered in the last leg of his flight from Canada. However, he wanted to feel sharp for the presentation and he thought food might have made him sluggish instead. The subject of his book was tentatively controversial, overtly crude even, at least according to some who had read his rough drafts. Ray Vecchio had been one of the few to grasp the basic ideas he was proposing to the point of actually help him edit it into something much more accessible, if not marketable.

Leaving his teaching post in Inuvik had been the hardest choice, but the temptation to be an actual published author overrode most of the guilt he felt. He didn't know the reason for Ray's insistence for him to come down to the US and "do the circuit". Perhaps he was alluding to attending a few literary types of gatherings or sitting down for a few sensible interviews with the media? In any case, he’d also been looking forward to see a bit of the world. Even if that meant having to do . . . whatever Ray had in mind in order to sell the book. He was a first-time author and he needed all the help he could get.

Thankfully, Maggie, his half-sister by way of his father, had been happy to take over his teaching post for as long as he needed to stay away. Fraser had realized that she was seeking the peaceful solitude that only such a remote posting could offer. Having just entered a state of widowhood, the last thing Maggie was looking for was any kind of romantic entanglements.

Feeling safely ensconced in the back seat as the taxi driver zigzagged through the city streets, Fraser was perfectly content not to divert the driver’s attention. He opened the often-repaired brown leather satchel he had bought in Yellowknife almost seven years before and took out the galley proof. The words **_DONE with Love_**_ by Benton Fraser _laid centered on the front page. It had been Maggie who had come up with the title during one of their late night talks on the phone. He knew her enough not to worry about her apparent pessimistic attitude towards that emotional state most people aspire to. After all, like her, he too had known loss and the price the heart pays for being open.

The car pulled up to the curb, shaking him out of his musings. Stepping onto the street after paying his fare and thanking the driver, he stretched out his neck, letting his head fall backwards as he took in the sight before him. The very tall, classic-looking building reminded Fraser of the Art Deco books in his grandparents’ library. The automatic doors opened with a whoosh.

There was a squeak with every step he took on the marble floor. Maybe wearing the hiking boots had not been the best idea. The security guard over at the main desk gave him a puzzled once over, perhaps confusing him with a lost tourist. He was aware that he was looking somewhat casual even in his ironed jeans, blue plaid shirt and brown leather jacket, but he had left his suit back in his cabin in Inuvik. There hadn’t been any logical way to keep it from wrinkling.

Fraser nodded at the younger man and walked towards the board looking for the publishing house. According to the building directory, Frobisher and Co. occupied the top six floors, which was impressive. Nothing in his conversations with Ray Vecchio had hinted at the size of the company.

The ride on the elevator car became uncomfortable by the not-so-subtle pinch he felt on his right buttock a few seconds after stepping inside. He turned around only to find two men and three women, most in the early 20s and dressed in the manner of general office wear, looking off in different directions. Thinking it prudent not to embarrass anyone, he moved to the side until he was standing against one of the walls of the car.

The group exited on the 20th floor.

A sudden heat on his face meant he was blushing. What was it with people being so forward? Rather than focus on that, he moved his neck side to side until a satisfying crack harmonized with the elevator bell and the doors opened on the 40th floor. Fraser squared his shoulders.He then stepped in the interior lobby, which had enough oak as to make him think he had walked into a movie set.

He was heading towards the receptionist, an older lady who was dictating a recipe for rack of lamb “South Side-style” over the phone, when he heard someone calling his name in what had become a familiar voice over the past eight months. “Fraser? Is that you?” A tall man wearing an impeccable cream suit strode towards him with a hand stretching in front of him.

“Ray? Ray Vecchio? It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Fraser smiled with relief as they shook hands. He felt a sure grip as he took in the cordial face with Italian features of the man he was been greeted by. Between the close-cropped hair, the silk tie and the tailored clothing, Ray Vecchio didn’t look like someone in the literature business. Maybe an art gallery owner or an haute cuisine restaurateur.

“I thought you had gotten lost in the Yukon,” Ray said, green eyes twinkling with warmth. “Pleasure to meet you. The Dragon Lady . . . sorry, er, Thatcher, told us this book would be a tough sell, but I think we can make an author of you yet.” Ray looked at him sheepishly for the name slip even though, inwardly, Fraser agreed with his assessment of Thatcher being the very definition of disciplinarian. He was about to tell his editor that he hadn’t taken any offence when he was tapped on a shoulder by a petite brunette with whom Ray shared a strong resemblance. She was wearing a dark blue fitted knit top that bared her bellybutton and a tight pair of black pants. Her makeup was almost at a professional level. Everything about her said I’m young and desirable.

“Hello there,” she said, almost wiggling as she stepped dangerously close to him, the shine in her eyes making him step a few centimeters backwards. Fraser noticed that the receptionist had stopped listing the ingredients for the marinade and was actively paying attention to the young lady’s attention towards him. The person at the other end of the line kept talking. “Are you the Antonio who has closed off the door to looooove?” the brunette asked in a teasing manner.

“Antonio, Frannie? What are you talking about?” Ray asked as he scrunched his face in confusion.

“You know. Antonio like in that play by Shakespeare. Antonio and Juliet,” she said matter of factly.

“Ahem,” Fraser interrupted, “perhaps this young lady is referring to _Romeo and Juliet_?”__

“Romeo, Antonio, Rodolfo. You get what I mean, yeah?” she said with a wink.

“Down, Frannie,” Ray warned with the exasperation of one who had to deal with mixed similes and metaphors all day long. "Fraser, meet my assistant, aspiring copy editor and younger sister Francesca Vecchio," he said, half-rolling his eyes. "Frannie, this is Benton Fraser who is not here to quote plays, sonnets or any kind of amorous writings written by British guys or anyone else for that matter."

Frannie ignored the hard tone Ray employed and shook Fraser’s hand. “Don’t be such a wet towel, Ray; I’m sure Fraser wouldn’t mind teaching me a thing or two about the language of _love_.”

Fraser coughed in discomfort. “Well, the written word has certainly been used as a way to court, ahem, throughout the ages. However, music must also be considered—”

“Anyways, Fraser,” Ray cut in as he gently moved Francesca to the side, “I can see why other editorial houses felt skittish towards your baby. Word on the street is that Thatcher shopped it around for a while.” He grabbed Fraser’s shoulder and squeezed once. “Not to say that the material was sub-par. It’s just . . . I don’t think I’ve ever read, heard or even discussed any other books where we are presented with the idea that love just isn’t worth it.”

“Well, Ray,” Fraser said almost in monotone, “sometimes you learn that romantic love is not the be all and end all. It’s better to channel all that energy into more altruistic pursuits. Besides, I did provide the steps for readers who want to engage in, er, consensual carnal relations.” Rather than waiting for a comment, he continued, “Erm, for those who do not want to behave in a celibate manner?”

At this, Ray blew a low sigh, Frannie ooohed and the receptionist looked like the cat that ate all the cream.

***~*~*~***

It was mid-morning when Ray Kowalski walked into the lobby for _New and Next_ magazine feeling more relaxed than ever. His black tie was undone and his blue shirt had the top three buttons open. Coming to work from a very late night/early morning party over at the Copa where he had met an extremely friendly redhead named Nat made him feel like the type of cad others assumed him to be. The two of them had danced, she could certainly move, but he had only met her for the dirt. That they had ended up almost horizontal after the second hour or so was purely coincidental. After all, she had the final piece of the puzzle about the publicly-homophobic _male_ senator and the_ male_ aide he had been stepping out with for the past seven months. Score one for the queers!

He figured Stella Kowalski _nee _Richmond was most probably trying to come up with ways to tear him apart. Having to wait almost a day before he could bring her the rough draft of ‘the story to end all stories’ as he had so affectionately had been calling it for the past three months was sure to be driving her half-crazy. Hence, his making an appearance at the office to smooth things even though he had already sent the article.

He winked at a couple of the assistants as he continued his loose stroll through the offices.The majority of them knew him by reputation and simply nodded their heads as he passed by their desks. It was at times like these when he believed the rumours of Stella sitting with each and every single one of them just so she could put the fear of God in them about accepting any of his advances. For despite the fact that Stella and he had been in relative good terms after their marriage crumbled, both of them could be considered to be the territorial type.

As he neared Elaine Besbriss’ desk, Ray thought about how Stella had handpicked the always-cool-under-pressure woman to be her personal assistant from the pool of hopeful interns only two years before. He suspected that the two of them were close enough to be in each other’s lives outside of the office. The thought made him smile.

Stella had always kept certain distance from most women. In part, Ray though it was due to her sometimes blunt personality. She had studied law, passed the bar exam even, but preferred to take over some of her father’s publishing business instead. “I might have to get covered in blood from time to time, Ray, but I will look pretty and no one will have to die at the end of the day,” she said in between breaths as they lay next to each other after one of their marathon-sex sessions ten years ago. Her father was not pleased.

There wasn’t much of the ‘mommy-type’ in Stella either – one of the specific issues that eventually tore them apart. Ray had wanted as many children as he possibly could have. He had begged, pushed, cajoled, and screamed even, for Stella and him to start with the baby-making. Every time he agreed to yet one more of her appeals for ‘taking things slowly’ and ‘now it’s not the right time Ray’, the hope that he one day would see a rugrat or two following him around, whether biological or adopted, grew weaker. The ironic thing was he would have waited forever for her, just for _her_.

Elaine, looking polished in her dark purple suit, which contrasted nicely with her café au lait skin and the dark brown mass of curls framing her delicate face, looked at him and gave him the friendliest of smiles.

Ray’s gut told him that grin meant he was in deeper trouble than he had imagined.

He stood next to her desk and waited to be announced. Stella might be his ex-wife and they might know each other for over two decades, but part of the reason why _New and Next_ magazine had done so well since Stella became Editor-In-Chief was because they had been able to keep their personal and professional lives separate before **and** after the divorce. Running a hand through his short blond hair, making it even more wild-looking than mere seconds ago, he reminded himself to avoid picking a fight with Stella.

Elaine picked up the phone. “Ms. Kowalski? Ray is here to see you.” He felt badly about having the friendly assistant be a type of buffer zone between Stella and him. She nodded at him with a pity in her eyes.

Ray rolled his shoulders once and stepped into Stella’s office.

A simple tempered glass desk was the centerpiece of the room. Stella had hired one of the most stylish decorating firms to re-do what had been her father’s office for over twenty years. Gone were the dark blues and heavy furniture. In its place, a matte light green covered the walls and everything screamed ultra-modern Italian furniture. Pretty and clean to look at, Ray thought, if somewhat uncomfortable to spend time sitting on.

There were a few vases with fresh flowers; Stella had always been a fan of gladioli, tulips and lilies. An almost-bare bookcase held some artsy-fartsy photography books. The only photos on the desk were of Ray’s mom and father. Stella’s family had portraits done and considered photographs to be too common.

Pushing some of her golden hair behind her ears as she studied him, Stella looked every part the executive. She was wearing a blue sleeveless wool dress and flat, ballerina-style black flats. Her tanned legs looked silky to Ray’s eyes and, for a mere second, he thought he felt them under his hands. Soft music was piping in from hidden speakers the size of a deck of cards.

Her eyes were colder than a midnight in January. He braced himself for Stella’s fury.

“Hello, Stell,” Ray said as he approached her, cautiously like one would approach a feral cat, “I . . . uh . . . ."

“Ray,” Stella said in what some circles was described as measured tones, “The fact that you think you are above any reprimand for turning in your article so very late—”

“Listen, Stell,” he said waving his smartphone at her, “I just emailed it to you. I’m . . . . It took me a while to get Nat to open up,” Ray continued, not meaning to sound as apologetic as he did. After all, it had been five years since they had gotten divorced. He wondered if he would ever get tired of pleading with her.

Stella exhaled. “Really?” she arched an eyebrow, “It took you long? Could it be that the patented Kowalski charm is wearing off?” The idea of being in the middle of a cross-examination flashed in Ray’s mind.

An urge to push back at her rose up inside him but he shoved it down. It was time to go on the offensive. “Jealous, babe?” He winked.

“This has nothing to do with feeling jealous which, for the record, I do not.” The tone of her voice was steady. Ray considered the fact that she really meant it this time around. “It _does_ have to with you being an adult and acting like one.”

“I am!” Ray said in such a manner as making it sound like he was about to throw a tantrum. He shook his shoulders, trying to keep things from getting nasty between them. “I told you I’d deliver on the senator’s story and I have.”

“Oh, Ray, I can’t be making special concessions to you whenever you feel like needing one,” Stella sighed, looking oddly vulnerable. She looked down at her hands and then back at him—one of the patented few ‘I give in because this is tiresome’ Stella moves.

Ray accepted the small gesture as the peace offering it was. Just then, a lazy bossa nova came through the speakers. Wanting to cool down things between them, he stepped around the desk and offered a hand. “May I have this dance?”

She glanced at his outstretched hand for a beat, all bony joints and long fingers, and nodded in silence before joining him.

Sex and dancing had been the only constants in their relationship. The two places where they were in absolute synch. Rhythm, Ray supposed, was a rare thing to find in a partner.

He took her in his arms with minimum flourish. Eyes closed, they began to sway to the mellow rhythm. Stella seemed to begin to unwind, most probably due to the familiarity between them. Being dancing partners since the early teens could do that to anyone.

“My dad,” Stella half-whispered in his ear, “he won’t be too happy with this article. Senator Riksham is one of his golfing partners.”

“Then, maybe, he shouldn’t have been such a hypocrite about sucking dick,” he said in annoyance as he led them all over the room. “Um, sorry, Stell. Didn’t mean to be crude.”

Stella stopped dancing and let go of him. “It’s okay. I don’t like it anymore than you do.” He looked down and into her eyes. Her petite body, delicate yet seemingly made of steel, was no longer tense and he felt a little corner of his heart ache. The sad realization that just because they knew each other didn’t mean they were meant to stay together poked at him. He felt his mind drifting towards the past and how his life shifted once he became a divorcee . . . .

A few rocky months after signing the divorce papers and boozing it up to the point that even his turtle was looking at him with disappointment, Ray started to work out many things about himself. Things that, had he remained married to Stella, he might have spent a lifetime wondering about but not acting on.

He enjoyed the company of men far too much to call himself straight, for example.

The first time he had kissed a man, he thought he was going to pass out it was so intense. Tom’s swift tongue and aggressive lips did a number on him. He managed to give his male kissing partner a weak excuse about an early morning meeting, at the end of their date, promised to call him—though he never did—and ran home only to end up jerking off while sitting on the living room sofa.

Three days later, he made a point to ask Cindy, the Guatemalan florist who had always flirted with him back when he used to buy Stella flowers, out on a date. Looking back, he saw it was a way to assure his own conscience that he wasn’t gay. He had been too nervous during their dinner, his thoughts too scattered and panicky, for anything else other than a frenzied make out session outside of her apartment building to happen when she invited him up for coffee.

As he drove home with a hard on that made pushing the gas pedal a dangerous experience, he realized that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about picking a team to play with. Maybe it was about being attracted to one person over the other not about the gender.

The ghost of a touch on his face brought him back to the present. Stella was gazing at him expectantly. Ray wondered what had she asked him.

“Ray. Didn’t you just hear what I just said?”

He shook his head side to side, as he moved his thoughts to the present. “Stell?”

Arms crossed in front of her, Stella looked every bit the head editrix. “Give me a few days to look the article over, ok?” Her face hardened a few degrees just in case he thought she wasn’t been serious enough. “I don’t want this to blow up in our faces.”

Ray rubbed the back of his neck before nodding. “Sure. I’m going to head out. Wanna share a coffee?” The idea of going back to an empty apartment made him feel tired and old.

Maybe she saw the loneliness he felt and maybe part of her responded to the familiarity of his company. Still, they were over as couple and she would never let him forget it. “No, thanks. My schedule is pretty nerve-wracking today.” She squeezed his right shoulder and sat back behind her desk.

He gave her a half-smile and accepted her rejection. “Rain check then.” Ray waved good-bye and headed home, wondering all the while if somewhere in the world there was a woman or a man he would one day give his heart to.

***~*~*~***

Fraser was feeling all out of sorts inside. He mulled over the idea he’d have to go to great lengths in explaining the book as well as himself, which gave him a feeling of being uncomfortably naked. The majority of his rejection letters included such comments as "too depressing" and "needs work to make it relatable.” He hoped Ray had a plan to make it seem, at the very least, palatable.

Francesca had left them alone as soon as they went into Ray's office. A heavy-looking oak desk occupied a large part of the room. All sorts of papers, including a few that looked like loose leaf notebook paper, covered most of the surface. Surely Ray had some way of deciphering through the papers. Nearly a foot of space lay between the mess and a slick laptop, a break that made Fraser consider the many ways his editor was a contrary man. Three bookcases, filled with everything from mid-1300’s poetry and critical analysis of the Central European novels to pulp novels from the late 40s, towered around the room. Fraser sat on the surprisingly comfortable dark red leather chair Ray offered to him.

Ray turned his computer on. “You mind I check my email?” Fraser shook his head sideways and took the brief respite to organize his thoughts. An even tap-tap-tap filled the room. It stopped just as sudden as it had started.

“Hmm.” Ray’s face couldn’t quite hide the displeasure of whatever news he had read on the computer screen.

Fraser’s wandering thoughts evaporated as soon as he registered his editor’s distress. “Is something the matter, Ray?”

"I think you'll be surprised to know that Thatcher has set up an assistant for you," Ray said without much enthusiasm.

"An assistant? I think she might be overtly zealous when it comes to my well-being." He swiped an eyebrow.

"Well, I guess she feared the Chicago mob would try to make mincemeat pie out of you then." Ray laughed as he closed the laptop and reclined on his chair. "Listen, Fraser. Uh, Benny. Can I call you that?" He continued at Fraser's nod. "I don't really know why exactly she would think you'd need a babysitter. All I can tell you is that he's a fellow Canuck and that from what I know, while a little clumsy, he seems to be a pretty normal guy. For a Canadian, I mean."

Fraser grinned at what after many months he now recognized as a friendly jab. One of these days, he was going to ask Ray why exactly he thought Canadians were weird. "And what is the assistant's name?"

"Turnbull. Renfield Turnbull. Strange name if you ask me. Maybe his parents were big Bram Stoker fans?” Ray shrugged. "Anyway, I'll introduce you to him as soon as our meeting with Frobisher is over. Frannie will most probably keep him distracted long enough if the jamboree runs long."

A small wave of panic inside Fraser's stomach followed those words. It had been years, at least a decade, since he had spoken to the man under whose company his book was going to be published. He hoped no insidious rumours from the North had fallen into the publisher's ears.

Francesca's voice echoed in the room then, via the intercom, announcing that Mr. Frobisher was ready for them. Ray straightened his tie after standing up. "I know you might have met before—"

“He and my father were old acquaintances,” Fraser said as professionally as he could. Now wasn’t the time to reminisce about the past. No good came of it.

“Uh-huh,” Ray mumbled, sounding not entirely convinced. Fraser thought he would have made a wonderful detective. “Well, in any case, Frobisher is a little kooky but a good guy altogether so, everything should go peachy."

Fraser thought the walk from Ray's office, through the hallway and around the corner to Buck's office was the longest one in his life.

***~*~*~***

"I haven’t seen ol’ Frobisher laugh so hard in a long time. How are you feeling?" Ray poured coffee with cream and no sugar for both of them. Fraser hmmed after taking a sip from his cup. He was relieved Frobisher had focused on the book’s merits that, while unconventional, were valid nonetheless.

“I’m very pleased, Ray.”

"You know he doesn’t meet with every single one of the authors, right?” Ray squinted at him.

Fraser felt a twinge of dread crawl back to his insides. “Is that so?”

“At least not until after he gets the sales figures. He likes to shake hands if the book is selling or give a comforting pat on the back if it doesn’t.” Ray shrugged his shoulders. “It sounds corny and maybe it is, but I think that’s part of the reason why we have so very few authors opting not to renew their contracts. The writer is a fragile creature, Fraser.” His editor’s tongue-in-cheek tone of voice eased his nerves somewhat.

“Ah.”

“He did look disappointed when you told him you hadn’t brought him any homemade, uh, what’s that thing called?” He gestured at Fraser’s confused face. “The beef jerky?”

“Pemmican, Ray.”

“Yes, that. It did go better than expected though, don’t you think?”

Fraser hmmed his agreement. Ray Vecchio had helped him keep the tone light while underlining the message of the book. They had worked hard on keeping the tone of the book less academic.

The most rewarding part had been learning that the publishing magnate gave him no extra merit based on the fact that he was Robert Fraser’s son. It was silly, perhaps, especially considering the book was due to come out in less than two months, but he had wanted to earn his chance at being published based on his talent and not on the fact that Frobisher and his dad had been old Depot buddies.

“The RCMP didn’t agree with me in the long run, son. I was proud to be serving, but after your father . . . .” Frobisher had closed his eyes and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Fraser nodded quietly. The less they talked about his parents’ murder at the hands of Gerrard and his associates the better. Frobisher had understood the man’s silence and had finished the meeting on that note.

The matter of his new assistant, whoever this Turnbull person was, helped him shift the conversation. "So, where is Turnbull?" He picked up a cookie and drank some more coffee.

"Frannie told me that his flight was late so, he will be meeting us over at the Canadian Consulate tomorrow. I actually think that’s where he’ll be staying though I don’t know why. He told Frannie that it had something to do with a queen’s bedroom?” Ray shrugged as he pushed his own coffee aside and looked through the papery mess for his agenda book. "Now. I'm thinking you need to do a little publicity to start the book's momentum." He flipped it open once he found it, glanced at a couple of pages and looked back at Fraser. “We’ll be sending advanced copies early next week.”

"What do you have in mind?" Fraser’s apprehension was making his heart thump like a locomotive near full speed. He knew promotion was part of the ‘package’ Thatcher had explained to him as they began to look over his contract with Frobisher and Co. back in Canada so many months ago. That didn’t mean he would be looking forward to any part of it.

"How about I set up an interview with not only _the_ top journalist in all of Chicago, but one of the most influential voices in print media for the past few years?" Ray looked at him expectantly.

Fraser raised his eyebrows. "You mean . . . ?"

"Yeah, none other than S.R. Kowalski. I’ve got connections so, I tapped a few shoulders, paid a couple of rounds for some funny characters who call themselves publicists and voila!" He finished with a quick hand gesture.

Fraser was impressed. “I think that would be highly beneficial. Thank you, Ray, for being such a great supporter of my book.”

"It’s not a problem, Benny. I'll, er, I talk to his boss, one class act called Stella Kowalski. See if we can set up something with Kowalski and her. Sweeten her up, if you will." At this, Ray sighed before giving him a soft smile.

Fraser considered what he knew about Stella Kowalski and inwardly shuddered. "I've heard she's very critical of unpublished authors."

"Ah, but you're bringing her an idea that could be beneficial for everyone." The gleam in Ray's eyes made Fraser see part of the benefits, at least for one Ray Vecchio.

He studied Ray’s face while appearing not to. The not-quite smug grin his editor had clued him in. "So, you fancy her?"

Ray tried to feint, but couldn’t mask much of what he was thinking. "Who? Stella?"

Fraser hmmed.

"Please, who wouldn't? She's beautiful and driven and very passionate about things. Plus, she’s single." Ray’s voice had grown loaded with equal parts desire and affection somewhere between ‘beautiful’ and ‘very’.

Fraser smiled. “You are a lost cause, Ray.”

***~*~*~***

A tinny version of “Uptown Girl” startled Ray Kowalski out of his slumber the following morning. He reached for the cell phone with as much grace as someone half-awake could muster.

The fact that Stella was calling_ him_, out of the blue, made him feel comfortable with his suspicious nature. “Mornin’, Stella. What can I do you for?”

“Hello, Ray.” He could imagine her rolling her eyes at the greeting but he didn’t really care. It was nine in the morning on the first Saturday he had bupkiss to do. He could be grouchy if he wanted to.

“What do you think about doing an editorial interview for the September issue?” Leave it to Stella to get to the point.

Ray thought about sitting up but ended up slouching further into his bed. “Why don’t you get Huey or Dewey to do that? I’m sure they still know how to spell most words,” Ray said with disdain. He hadn’t gone through journalism school to end up writing pretty and bland articles instead of something worthwhile. For that, he would have chosen to work at a tabloid.

“No.” Stella answered. That she was being stubborn made him curious. “This one might have to be handled delicately.”

“Huh?” He ran a hand over his face. He needed coffee pronto.

“Ray, I think you should write about love.”

***~*~*~***

Four days later, Fraser was trying to recall the inner calm he felt when his editor expounded on his plan for the interview. He was wearing the red plaid shirt, neatly pressed of course, his brown leather jacket and another pair of jeans for his business lunch with S.R. Kowalski and the reporter’s editor-in-chief. His preoccupation over being underdressed for the occasion withered away when it looked like the journalist would most probably be wearing something as casual as he. Ray had made it sound like Kowalski wasn’t really interested in wearing suits. “He dresses like a bag lady, Benny,” Ray said with obvious contempt as he pulled up his metallic green Buick Riviera next to a parking meter half a block away from the restaurant.

Fraser waited until the key was off the ignition. “How well do you know him, Ray?”

His editor moved his head side to side, one hand on the door handle, perhaps trying to come up with a civil answer. “Uh, let’s say there’s a guy who can write in a way that will shake you up, sideways and backwards, right?” Ray paused until Fraser nodded at him to continue. He checked the side mirror and waited for some cars to drive by. “But, at the same time, he’s a cocky motherf—uh, idiot who charms his way through things because he can get away with that kind of shit. Does that answer your question?”

Fraser rubbed an eyebrow before stepping out of the car. “No. Not really.” He was intrigued.

***~*~*~***

The Lucky Cookie was an elegant Chinese restaurant on the south side. Fraser felt a pang of nostalgia as some traditional Southern Chinese music reached his ears. He thought of his grandfather and of the admittedly long-winded bedtime stories he would sometimes tell him whenever Fraser was afraid or cold as a child. There was a petite blonde woman sitting alone seven tables from the entrance staring at the two of them, a polite but by no means friendly smile on her face. Ray’s own grin, however, was warm. “Stella,” he said after they walked up to her, “you look more beautiful every time I see you!” Ray took her hand in his before turning to the side. “This is Benton Fraser, the Canadian author whose work we are about to publish over at Frobisher’s.”

Fraser gave her his own version of a courteous smile as they shook hands. “Miss Kowalski, it’s a pleasure.” Both men waited until she sat down before doing the same thing. “I don’t know if you are familiar with the subject of my book?”

She looked at him in a way that unnerved him. He had the impression that she had instantly decided she didn’t like him and he was unaware as to why. Stella then pored over the menu in front of her. “I’ve heard about it. Perhaps we can begin to order before we discuss it? Ray, that is, Mr. Kowalski is not the most punctual of men.”

Fraser was somewhat shaken by the abrupt change in conversation. He scanned the menu for a moment before calling over their waiter.

"Wait. I haven't decided what I'm going to order!" Everything in Stella's tone insinuated at him being completely rude. Ray was beginning to look a little bit embarrassed.

Fraser ran a thumb over his left eyebrow. "Oh, I'm not ordering yet. As point of fact, I just want to ask the waiter something." He then proceeded to address the waiter in perfect Mandarin to Ray and Stella's surprise. Following a rapid exchange of words, both Fraser and the young man started laughing.

He turned his head back to Ray, whose eyebrows were practically levitating, and Stella, who had a stern expression on her face. "Ahem. Sorry. My grandparents, who were traveling librarians, raised me. They had been missionaries in China some time before I was even born." He was feeling awkward about keeping his meal companions out of the conversation. "Chiung," he indicated the young man still wiping tears from giggling so hard, "has mentioned that the duck, the scallions or the vegetable platters are the better choices today."

Ray, once the novelty of the foreign language wore off, asked him to order duck for both Stella and himself. He looked more amused than annoyed, Fraser thought, at hearing him speak an Asian language. Stella, however, was tense. "Sorry," he said once again after having some tea.

"So, Stella, when is this brilliant journalist _ex_-husband of yours going to grace us with his presence?" Vecchio glanced at her with tenderness in spite of what was coming out of his mouth. He was looking as sharp as ever in a navy blue wool suit. Meanwhile, Ms. Kowalski was wearing a pale lavender suit that complemented his editor’s attire quite nicely, Fraser thought.

"Ray might have gotten stuck in traffic," she commented without much assurance. "Let me try his cell again."

On the third ring, Ray answered. "Yes?"

"Ray, Mr. Vecchio, Mr. Fraser and I have already arrived at the Lucky Cookie. Where are you?"

"Oh, is he there? He's annoying and prissy, right? Am I right or am I right?" Stella had gone over the details on their meeting a day before. Ray had told her Fraser either was missing a heart or was a total prude despite the book’s pro-sex stance.

She looked over at the man who was presently trying to teach Ray Vecchio how to eat using chopsticks. "Well, I don't know. However, we would all like to know how long it is going to take you to come down here. We could wait for you for dessert."

A brief moan followed. "Er, put him on the horn."

Stella gave her cell phone to Fraser. "He'd like to talk to you."

"Good afternoon, Benton Fraser speaking."

"Hey, Fraser. Sorry I cannot make it to lunch today. Something has come up." Ray's voice was low and somewhat strained as if talking to him was a big effort.

"Oh, I wish we would have known that you were unable to make it, Mr. Kowalski—"

"Ray. Call me Ray." More stifled moaning followed.

"Yes. Ray." At this, his editor looked at him for a moment before rolling his eyes. "As I was saying, it is a sad thing that we cannot meet—"

"Can we reschedule then?" Ray was practically panting. What exactly was going on? "Say, tomorrow night at Il Maestro. Say around 9ish?"

"Very well, Mr. Kow . . . —Ray, we'll meet tomorrow." Fraser hung up the phone not entire sure that Mr. Kowalski, Ray, was even listening to him by that point.

***~*~*~***

Ray hung up and put his phone in his pocket. Mariano was licking his right ear like his life depended on it. A small corner of his mind felt bad about leaving Fraser hanging. The truth was that he was much more interested doing meetings of the naked kind than with a goody-goody schoolteacher who ran around with the likes of Vecchio. He slid his left hand between his and Mariano's bodies until it covered the very solid bulge in the Argentinean's jeans.

***~*~*~***

The wine was excellent, or so Ray Vecchio and Stella said the following evening. Fraser, being more of a teetotaler, was drinking sparkling water. A mostly empty plate of thick dinner rolls drizzled with olive oil and minced garlic was the only thing on the table.

“He’ll be here soon,” Stella had promised them as they were being seated.

Fraser looked at Ray whose face showed contempt. “Perhaps we can wait until he arrives, then, to order our meal?” At this, Stella gave him a tight smile while Ray almost-rolled his eyes.

Due to the casual atmosphere, all three were wearing jeans with both Ray and Fraser opting for sweaters while Stella wore a stylish knit top.

"It's ten minutes to," Fraser said after looking at his wristwatch.

"Don't worry, Benny, he'll call to reschedule. Uh, I mean he’ll come. He'll be here." His editor was red-faced.

Stella looked equally uncomfortable. Almost as if it had been pre-destined, her cell phone rang.

"Stell? Have all of you been waiting long?"

"No. We got here less than ten minutes ago." She nodded at the men in front of her. "Where are you?"

"Put him on the phone please?"

Stella handed the phone over to Fraser. "He . . . he wants to talk to you."

Fraser felt his face growing hot and made a great effort to keep his tone of voice an amiable one. "Good evening, Benton Fra—"

"Fraser," Ray interrupted, "Sorry. I won't be able to make it. I'm all tied up." His voice had that far away quality that sometimes happened when people used the speakerphone.

"Hmm, I see." He really didn't.

"What would you say to giving me a raincheck?" The echo increased and now there was a distinct jiggling after every single one of Ray's words.

"Listen, Mr. Kowalski—"

"I told you to call me Ray!"

"As I was saying, I think it's rather obvious that you believe in playing games. While I understand that a man of your journalistic height would consider a barely professional author like me worthy of your time, it's a puzzle trying to figure out why you think so little of good manners.As great of an opportunity as this might be, it's with some displeasure that I must decline your offer of a so-called raincheck. Being stood up two nights in a row is two times too much. Thank you and I hope you have a pleasant evening!" He hit the end button not caring to hear any more about the very discourteous S.R. Kowalski.

Stella was pale as she took her phone back. "And a good night to you, Miss Kowalski. It is a shame that we were unable to "hammer out" this interview.” He turned to face his editor and best friend. “Ray, please continue to enjoy your dinner with Ms. Kowalski. I’m taking a cab back to my hotel. We’ll talk tomorrow." And with that, he left.

***~*~*~***

Halfway through Fraser’s rant, Lisa had begun to undress. He was tugging at his restrained wrists. The leather cuffs had been extreme but not unpleasant. Ray thought he could definitely be all over this if it meant getting the type of treatment he was presently experiencing. Yeah it was sloppy to drop the dinner with Fraser so carelessly and Stella was sure to be mad next time he went to the office. Still, there was nothing that sounded even vaguely interesting about this Canadian schoolteacher. Everything about it made it sound more like the most tedious assignment he had had in a long time. He had paid his dues as an investigative reporter for many years for him to spend some precious non-bondage time chatting it up with some random guy about his shiny new book.

***~*~*~***

The next morning, Fraser was sitting by the reception area of Frobisher and Co. halfway listening to Turnbull as the latter man prattled on the agenda for the next two weeks.

“I believe we are still waiting to hear back from the two radio stations about the on-air interviews. The Tribune doesn’t really seem, ahem, interested,” Turnbull looked at him apprehensively, “and the Reader tells me that the best they can work for us is a ‘blurb’, sir.”

The headache that had begun last night as he had stepped out of the Italian restaurant grew by 7%. “Turnbull,” he groaned as he tried to control wave after wave of frustration, “I have already mentioned it to you that it is perfectly okay to address me by my last name instead of what sounds like some kind of imperial appellative.” He saw the young man hunch his shoulder and exhale. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you are doing, but, at the moment, all I want is to quietly wait for Ray so that I can head back to my hotel room as soon as possible and get some rest.”

Turnbull nodded in silence before getting up and starting to dial on his cell phone. Fraser closed his eyes and reclined until he could use that relaxation technique where he imagined himself slowly freezing in the snow.

The throbbing in his head had already begun to lessen when he heard Turnbull and Francesca debating whether or not he took his drinks with sugar. A clean aroma reached his nostrils further helping on the relaxation.

“Si—ahem, Fraser?” The fact that Turnbull was approaching him so tentatively spoke volumes on how obnoxious he must have sounded moments before.

“Yes, Turnbull?” He straightened up and, upon seeing Francesca standing next to his assistant, got up to greet her. “Good morning, Francesca.”

“We,” his assistant said as he jerked his head towards Ray’s sister, “took the liberty of getting you some Nepalese oolong tea.”

“It might help with the angst,” Francesca said not quite cheerfully. “Ray told me about what happened last night at Il Maestro. That Kowalski’s such a loser!”

Fraser felt both grateful for her concession towards him and embarrassed for having been so brusque towards his dining companions. “Thank you kindly. The both of you.” He then took the cup on his hands and sighed with relief after sipping the bitter liquid.

“Ray is almost here,” Francesca said. “He had to go talk to some of his peeps.”

Fraser furrowed his brow. “I don’t follow.”

She looked back at both Fraser and Turnbull whom were staring at her as if she’d been wearing a bright green neon dress. “His pals, amigos, what’s that word?” She cocked her head to the side. “Cronies.” Winking at Turnbull, she turned around and headed to Ray’s office. “I’m sure Ray will like to see you in his office and I want to make sure that there is somewhere for the two of you to sit.”

At this, Turnbull blushed and Fraser sat back down.

He had been pondering on how much Francesca’s not-so-subtle pursuit of him had cooled off since Turnbull had begun to work for him, when Ray showed up.

“Morning, Benny!” he said cheerfully. “And what a good morning it is!” Ray was wearing a very interesting shirt, multi-colour swirls in a chaotic pattern that nearly hypnotized Fraser, and dark gray slacks. He nodded at both men. “Hey, Turnbull.” He twisted his head towards his office and then back at them.

Fraser smiled at him in return. “How are you today, Ray?”

“Frannie didn’t tell you the news, right?” Both men shook their heads no. “Well, first of all, Fraser, I’m sorry Kowalski turned out be such a dick.” He made a stopping motion with his hand as soon as Fraser opened his mouth, most probably to utter some type of apology. “No, really. I don’t know how that guy got to where he is, professionally speaking, I mean.”

“Yes, his actions towards me were regrettable.” Fraser couldn’t say more about that without sounding ungentlemanly. He noticed that even Turnbull had grown serious at his words.

“But,” Ray slapped him on the shoulder, “the upside is that I got you an interview, a _TV interview_, with someone ten times more respectable than Stanley Kowalski. Follow me.” He led the two men back to his office before sitting behind his desk. Francesca, Fraser noticed, was all but perching on the edge of the desk with a proud smile on her face.

He observed that Turnbull was looking everywhere but at Ray’s assistant. “You were saying something about a TV appearance, Ray?”

“Guess who shops at the same shoe store as Harding Welsh’s wife?” Ray jerked a thumb at Francesca.

At this, Ray’s sister perked up. “That lady has great taste let me tell you. Yesterday afternoon, I had gone to _Walk_.” At this, her gaze flitted expectantly between the two men seated in front of her. “You know that new designer shoe store on West Belmont?” She flicked her hands. “Well, I had my eye on this pair of gray suede Ariadna sling backs--”

“Frannie,” Ray interrupted, “less about footwear and more about the big news.”

“Anyways,” Francesca said doing that almost-eye roll, the one Fraser had inwardly deemed “The Vecchio Stare”, “I recognized her from the Chicago Media gala a few months back because she was one of the few women who can carry vintage Dior without looking ridiculous and I told her as such. RAY!” Francesca jumped after her brother elbowed her.

“Ix-nay on the fashion, Frannie. Get with it!”

“So,” she continued after giving him a brief scowl, “there we were: trying on shoes and chatting like old girlfriends. She asked me about my job and, once I told her that I worked in publishing, about upcoming projects. I mentioned that my brother was working with this new author, a man that I found very . . . .” She pursed her lips and ran a hand through her hair. “Ahem, that doesn’t matter. In any case, I pointed out that we were looking into promoting your book, Fraser, and she offered to talk to her husband about having you on his show.” She was practically beaming.

“Gardino, Welsh’s main man, called me late last night,” Ray said. “He told me that there is a spot with your name on it two weeks from today. Gentlemen, my sister, the PR genius.” Ray Vecchio said with pride.

Fraser was speechless.

***~*~*~***

Stella was looking mighty pissed the morning following Il Maestro. "Morning, Stella." She squinted back at him. Mmm, it was going to be bad.

"Ray," she sighed, "did you enjoy making a fool out of me?"

"Stell—"

"No. Not this time, Ray. I told you how important it was for me to set up the initial interview with Fraser and his editor. I ended up having to set it up twice and twice you blew it off!" Her tone was iceberg cold. Ray recoiled. "I know you think it might be a big waste of time to do an interview piece, you might think that Fraser is the most obnoxious man on Earth even. I won't disagree with you on the last thing. However," she leaned forward as Ray felt the brunt of her anger, "It doesn't pay to play games. It didn't in the past and it doesn't now. Besides, I’ve finally read an advanced copy of _DONE with Love _and I think Fraser is onto something."

"_DONE with Love_?" Ray snorted. "Really? Could he have picked a less naive title?" He rolled his eyes.

"Ray, stop being so childish. You’re 37 years old! Now, I'd like you to get a feel for him so that you can start working on the piece." She threw a flyer at him. "He's been scheduled for the next 'Meet the Author" over at the Between the Pages bookstore a week from today. I want you there, I want you to meet him and I want the article."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Are you pulling rank, Stella?"

She looked at him with a determined expression on her face. "You bet I am, Ray. Get going."

***~*~*~***

The first thing that Ray noticed as he entered the vestibule to Between the Pages bookstore was that the female to male ratio was something like ten to three. There was giggling and gasping and somewhat loud whispers of "hot" and "yummy". He realized that nearly every woman was wearing tight, revealing, whatever passed for sexy in this day and age or a combination of all three. The air was thick with the combined aromas of many of the ladies' perfumes. Up in the front, there was a young man, tall and somewhat cute, finishing up some speech.

"He'll take your questions now. Please focus on asking about the subject of the book." He stepped off the podium. A wave of applause erupted, followed by a loud and very feminine titter amongst the crowd.

"Ahem," a warm baritone broke through the giggling, “If you please raise your hand before placing your question so that I know who I have to address?"

Ray, who had missed most of the event due to heavy traffic, pushed his way through the crowd until he was close enough to see the man with the spotlight on his face. It was then when he understood what all the fawning was about.

A nervous-looking but otherwise handsome man was gripping the sides of the podium as if he would faint if he let go of it. He was about Ray's height, maybe an inch or two shorter, though not as slim, with short black hair that contrasted with his pale skin. Ray thought, somewhat amusedly, that he looked like he a modern version of Mr. Darcy, all dashing hero but emotionally retired from the world.

A teenage girl raised her hand about six rows from the front. "What inspired you to write the book?"

Fraser licked his lips and half of the audience sighed with longing. "Ah. My experiences in regards to romantic matters have been," he licked his lips again, "less than stellar. They led me to wonder about the nature and purpose of settling for an idea where the best one can get is a moment of feeble comfort." He coughed to the side before looking back to the crowd. “Yes. The lady who is wearing the purple sweater.”

"Do you think that you'll ever fall in love again?"

"Erm, no. I don't think it'll be possible."

"But don't you want to get married?" Another woman asked in such a way that even Ray could get a whiff of her desperation.

"I have never thought of myself as the marrying type." A sad sigh echoed.

"Do you date often?" Even Ray squirmed at that one. Suddenly he felt like he was at one of those speed-dating things. He felt bad for Fraser, being in the spotlight like that, and the emotion surprised him.

Fraser let go of the dais with his right hand and tugged at his collar. "I . . . I haven't had many opportunities to do so."

"_Bullshit_," Ray though. He could tell Fraser was doing a very strange version of lying. Kinda stepping around whatever it was that he wanted to hide. Ray almost always knew when people were trying to build a house of cards. It was his thing, what made him such a good reporter. He had even thought of joining the police Academy in his early 20s, but a serious case of astigmatism took him out of the running.

And now, Fraser, Mr. Love-is-a-waste-of-time himself, was bluffing left and right about ever needing to make connections with someone. It gnawed at Ray. Why would someone like Fraser, who obviously had no shortage of willing dating candidates, had closed himself down in such a way as to almost make it into an art?

"Maybe all you need is a night in town with me?" A voice echoed with murmurs and laughter right after it. The crowd seemed to get rowdy. Ray was glad there was no bar nearby.

Fraser offered a shy smile and Ray felt a brief urge to pounce on him. “I’m afraid my schedule is full during my time in your lovely town. However, I did have_ two_ dining engagements when I first arrived to Chicago though nothing came of it.”

Some of the women in the crowd shook their heads. Whispers of “loser” and “what a waste!” reached Ray’s suddenly very hot ears. He had the singular feeling that he was been addressed by one Benton Fraser, super-hot schoolteacher.

Ray had begun to consider just how willingly_ shallow_ he had been ever since he heard about the editorial assignment, when the tall man he saw when he came into the bookstore stepped next to a dazed Fraser. "Well, thank you for being here and enjoying a chapter reading of _DONE with Love_. We hope you enjoy the book as well. Good night." He then pulled on one of the still stunned Fraser’s arms and led him away from the raucous crowd.

He could see the two men but, since he didn't have supersonic hearing, Ray could only read the body language between the two of them. Fraser, looking as flustered as if he had been witness to someone insulting a Canadian hockey team, was talking in what seemed like quietly angry tones to the other man. Nodding his head, the other man waited until Fraser was done bitching (which was what it looked like to Ray) to place a calm hand on his shoulder. Fraser blushed like maybe he had pushed things too far. The other man blushed in return.

Seeing the exchange, Ray turned around and walked out of the bookstore. A plan forming in his head . . . .

It was early enough in the evening to know that Stella would still be at her office. The place was pretty much deserted, even Elaine had gone home. A light underneath the door and 80s music coming from Stella's office confirmed his suspicions. He knocked on the door twice and let himself in.

A ping resonated. He saw Stella smile and begin typing on her computer. Hmm, she was IMing on a Friday night. Ray might have been intrigued as to whom with before. However, he was in a mission now.

"Stell?" She jumped up and looked at him tilting her head until she could see him. "Didn't mean to startle you."

She typed up something quickly and took her glasses off. "What is it Ray? Are you following me? I thought we were past this." Her voice was tense.

"Um, no. I swear, Stella. I just—I wanted to go over something with you."

"And you couldn't call? It's ten pm for God's sake." Ray didn’t know what the reason for her defensiveness was, didn’t want to ask.

"Um, I didn't think." He saw Stella exhale and make 'get with it' motions with her hands. "Anyways, I've just come from the "Evening with Fraser" thing. By the way, every time you’ve mentioned him, you’ve always left out the part where he’s good-looking."

"Uh-huh,” Stella shrugged. “And?"

"And I've got an idea. Dunno if you'll like it." He had initially thought Stella would be okay with it, especially since it looked like she thought Fraser was something of a dud, but now, in front of her, he had to admit that he was a bit scared.

"Go on."

He shook his shoulders for a couple of breaths as he worked out how to set the idea in a way that didn't make him to be such a jerk. "I know you want me to do one of those very nice and bland interviews with the author type of thing with Fraser. I could do it too, you know I could." He swallowed. "However, what would you say about doing an expose on Fraser?"

"Expose? What, are you going to dig around until we learn that he's not really from Canada?"

"No, nothing like that." Ray hated it when Stella got sarcastic. It tended to raise his hackles, so to speak. "I think there's a story there. He kept doing this not-lying thing tonight. There was something about how he deflected all of the questions about his love life—" Stella cocked her head for a moment. She was warming up to the idea. "I want to do an undercover assignment. Suss the truth out, I mean. I am going to woo him, Kowalski-style, until I can get him on video or audio about how he is a human being with feelings who needs as much love as the next person."

"Because he seems so emotionally remote? Ray, I’m going to need more than that if you want my ‘go ahead’,” she said with steel confidence. Ray saw shades of what Stella could have been if she had become an attorney.

"My instinct is telling me that there is a whole lotta more to what we've been shown about one Benton Fraser, Stella." He pointed his left hand's index and little fingers at her. "And I intend to find out what that story is."

"Is this professional or personal interest on the subject, Ray?" Stella's raised eyebrow hinted at her knowing that he had thought of Fraser as too attractive to let him go by.

"You can call it whatever you want, Stell. I just want him nailed." He gave her a sideways smile as she thought about the assignment.

A lone synthesizer, maybe it was a keytar, was doing a solo. Ray tried to keep his left leg from jiggling so much.

"Okay, Ray," she finally said, raising a hand as soon as he stopped the nervous tic and leaned forward. "I like where you’re going with this. How about I run it through Sandor over at Legal? Getting sued wouldn't do any good for anyone. Meanwhile, you start doing your groundwork. Get the story on Fraser: where he goes, who he knows, that type of thing. Also, I think we have to be careful here. Ray Vecchio is protective of Fraser and that is one person I don't want to push around.”

"Alright, Stell. And thanks for, um, giving me the green light." He winked at her and left her offices while his mind went around and around like a yo-yo.

Back at the bookstore, after the secret embarrassment of being called out on giving Fraser the slip twice, he hadn’t fully thought through some aspects of the story idea. Like how Ray Vecchio was going to be a problem for example. They had met at a couple of literary awards and had gotten along as great as two angry wolves. Vecchio could undo what Ray was trying to discover.

It wasn't so much that he was aiming at making a fool out of Fraser. He could recognize the other man's heart as bruised but not irreparably broken.

Ray really didn’t know why _he_ actually _cared_ to learn how Fraser plus emotions equaled polar winter, but his instincts had never failed him before. That he was willing to overlook the slight sense of danger that rumbled in his belly every time he went over his plan must mean that this story was worth writing.

Oh, okay, he also wanted to show the Canadian that he wasn’t such a heel.

***~*~*~***

“Fraser? Are you ok?” Turnbull’s face showed concern. Sometimes he thought his assistant had been exceedingly protective, but he was glad for the younger man’s support after what felt like one of the worst moments in his life.

Fraser didn’t understand the reason for mentioning S.R. Kowalski’s rebuffs seeing how there was nothing even vaguely romantic about those business meals. “Ah, yes, Turnbull. I’m fine. Perhaps just a bit fatigued.” He felt himself blushing without meaning to. “I think I’ll return to my hotel, walk Diefenbaker and turn in early.” The overtly feminine crowd had unnerved him. That coupled with the increasingly personal questions worked in tangent to shake him up. His assistant led him outside and placed him inside a taxi. Fraser rubbed an eyebrow twice. His TV interview with Welsh was scheduled the following Monday. However, he was feeling too tired to feel properly excited about it.

***~*~*~***

Ray did a double take when he saw Fraser on TV, sitting next to Canadian country music superstar Tracy Jenkins and comparing anecdotes about guitar lesson mishaps. He had tuned in to Welsh’s magazine show on a whim, really, considering he had been bedbound due to catching a cold. He had hated to have to put his plan on hold, but between the sneezing and the fevers and the general weakness, there wasn’t much else to do but wait til he got better.

Welsh was known for asking tough questions after putting his interview subjects at ease. Apparently, Fraser had some kind of anti-tough question shield because he threw in not one but two Inuit tales about heartbreak and a strange yarn about hiding in a caribou carcass for over two days. Ray was awed at how little Fraser could say about _himself_ using so many words.

Keeping tabs on Fraser proved to be annoyingly difficult. According to his informants, whenever Fraser wasn't over at the Frobisher building, he was in town with that tall man, who turned out to be his Canadian assistant, Turnbull and some white dog. Ray had a feeling Fraser and Turnbull weren't dating, mostly because it looked like one Renfield Turnbull had a Canadian (meaning polite) crush on Vecchio’s sister. For his part, Fraser remained friendly but respectful toward everyone.

“I will have to do a final review before the piece goes to print,” Sandor had told him over the phone a week later into his investigation, “but otherwise it’s all systems go.”

“Thanks, Sandor. I owe you a pizza.” Ray hung up the phone. He tapped his hands against his car’s steering wheel and wondered, for the millionth time, if Fraser went anywhere alone.

It wasn't until three days later, when a solo Fraser stepped inside Tontino’s Deli, that Ray saw his opportunity. He drove past the deli and parked his GTO a block away.

Finding his quarry, well, Fraser wasn’t difficult. For one thing, Tontino’s was small and for another, it was early in the afternoon on a Wednesday. The place was practically a ghost town.

"And what would you recommend as far as a good dessert?" Fraser's voice gave Ray goose bumps.

"A nice Amaretto cheesecake perhaps?" the clerk answered.

"Very well. I'd like to place an order for pick-up tomorrow. Thank you kindly." He started to look at the rest of the pastries while the deli clerk drew up a receipt.

Ray saw his opening and 'accidentally' bumped into him. "Oh, sorry. I, um, didn't see where I was going." Ray genuinely stumbled over his words. It was impossible to ignore that, this close, Fraser was gorgeous. He gave him a timid smile.

A sudden blush rose up on the Canadian's face. "No need to apologize. I wasn't paying attention either." Fraser licked his lips. He looked like he was about to say some other nicety when a white blur came out from nowhere and jumped up at Ray. "Dief! Get off him!"

Ray stood rigidly while what looked like a wolf settled down and looked up at him with interest. "Diefenbaker, not every stranger is going to get you pastry samples." Ray glanced at the man and then at the wolf whom appeared to be in some kind of conversation. Unhinged Fraser. Interesting angle. "No, I don't think so. You know how your stomach gets if you have too many sweets. Honestly, Dief, one would think you have gone soft." The wolf started to pant right then and Ray had the strange feeling that it was actually laughing.

"It's okay,” Ray said to Fraser. “Really. I'm alright. See?" He moved his arms and hands, making a show of being unharmed. "And who might this be?" He ran his hands over the animal's head before beginning to scratch him behind one ear.

"This ill-behaved half-wolf is Diefenbaker. He's my companion." The blush had almost faded, but Fraser still looked mighty embarrassed. "I'm Benton. Benton Fraser."

Ray took the outstretched hand with his right one. "Nice to meet him and you. A half-wolf, huh?"

"Yes he is or at least he pretends to be.” Snippy Fraser was fun. “I’m sorry I believe you haven’t told me your name?" Fraser looked at him expectantly, which almost wiped Ray’s mind in its entirety.

An image of Steve McQueen in _Bullit_ popped out of nowhere. "Steve. My name is Steve . . ."Ray looked around the deli until his eyes settled on a jar of anchovies. "Chives. Steve Chives. Nice to meet you Fraser.”

“And you too, Mr. Chives.” The clerk cleared his throat before handing over the receipt into Fraser’s hands.  
“I go by Steve.” Ray smiled. “The only time anyone calls me Mr. Chives is when I’m in trouble.”

It wasn’t Ray’s style to be pushy, but he had to get this part of the assignment over with if he had a shot at getting the whole enchilada. “Fraser?” He felt the other man’s stare and shuddered for a moment. There was passion there, alright. Hidden perhaps, way, way down into a catacomb or two, but it was there. Ray could _feel _it. “Tell you what. How about we blow this joint and go have us a couple of drinks over at Joie De Vine?"

Fraser rubbed an eyebrow. "Thank you, Steve, but I don't drink. Sorry."

Ray hadn’t taken that into consideration. ‘Courting’ Fraser was going to be the challenge of his journalistic life. "Okay, how about having a coffee or, um, tea with me then?" He was feeling too nervous for his own good.

"Tea.” Fraser’s face softened then before breaking into a gentle smile. “That would be very pleasant. I think Turnbull mentioned The Little Cup as having a really good variety of teas. They are also pet," a woof from below cut him off, "I mean, wolf-friendly."

"Greatness. Lucky for us, I think that is about four blocks from here. I parked my car on the next block, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain. Mind if we walk?"

***~*~*~***

Fraser stepped out of the little Italian deli followed by an eager Dief and Fraser’s new friend, Steve. They walked almost in tandem with one another and kept the conversation light as they made their way through the streets.

“Here we are,” Ray said as he held the door open for both human and half-wolf. Dief went inside first, as if this whole thing was about pampering him. He trotted until he came across one of the pastry carts. Then, he sat down and began to look at, perhaps even study, each dessert with fierce concentration.

Fraser walked through the door and most of the tea salon until he found a booth in what looked like one of the quietest or most intimate parts of the cafe.

It was a medium-sized place with comfy chairs as well as booths with not one ounce of pretentiousness like Ray had imagined it to be given its name. "Funny, I've never been here even though I'm a native Chicagoan." The clink of spoons into cups mixed in with quiet but not sleep-inducing music began to make an effect on Ray. The anxiety he had felt back at the deli had begun to dissipate. He sat in front of Fraser who was presently studying the tea menu with 'ahs' and 'hmms' escaping his lips every other second.

Ray was charmed. Leave it to Fraser to feel impressed by a place that had a million and one ways of making coffee's mellow cousin.

Fraser ordered Lotus tea. Feeling less adventurous, Ray went with a cup of Earl Gray instead.

The waiter, a cute Hispanic guy with enough tattoos on his arms to almost make Ray feel wimpy for his lone "Champion" one on his right shoulder, briefly discussed the merits of Darjeeling tea from Sri Lanka over the African green tea variety with Fraser before suggesting a plate of assorted amuse-bouches to "make the tea experience complete."

A chuckle escaped Ray's lips.

"Is something the matter, Steve?"

"Huh? Um, no. I just have never thought of drinking tea on the same page as being some kind of event. That's all."

"Well, Steve,” Fraser licked his lips, "There are many parts of the world where drinking tea is a way of communing not only with others but with one's self as well. Places as disparate as the United Kingdom and Japan, for example, embrace the very simple act of drinking tea as a way to make familial bonds even stronger."

"Yeah, I get what you mean, Fraser. It's kinda like how, in my family, it's not really dinnertime until you see a plate of golabki on the table. It's like, what’s that word?" He saw Fraser holding himself back at offering suggestions and was glad for it. "Hold on, it's on the tip of my tongue . . . Shorthand! It's the shorthand for 'we are all sharing this because we're bound to each other by blood or something, right?"

"That's very insightful, Steve."

"I've got my moments." He shrugged just as their order arrived. They both reached out for their respective cups.

"So, Steve,” Fraser said once he had sipped that weird tea that, to Ray, smelled of black licorice and yeast, "what do you do?"

The former calm Ray had cozied up to began to crumble. "I . . . ." He began to think of as many professions as he could, each one sounding even more ridiculous than the next. The Goat flashed in his mind. "I fix cars." Or at least one car, but Fraser didn’t need to know that. He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to chill out. Why was he feeling so crummy about telling him this?

"You mean you are a mechanic?" Fraser had cocked his head to the side and, for one brief moment, Ray had the impression he'd sniffed out that something was queer.

"Um, yeah. My dad taught me how to do basic stuff back when I was a kid. Jamie, that's my older brother, never really took to repairing engines. I think he felt a little jealous when Dad and I began restoring what ended up being my GTO. The day we got her purring was one of the happiest days in my life. You know anything about cars?"

"A little. Up in Inuvik, where I live, I don't really drive. Other than sleds in the winter, I mean."

"Huh? You live in the North Pole or something?"

Fraser gave him a crooked smile. "Erm, no. Not quite. I do live almost above the tree line over in Inuvik, located in the Northwest Territories up in Canada. A lot of the townsfolk like to use snowmobiles during the winter, but I've attached myself to the romantic idea of keeping some of the old customs alive. Besides,” he said while looking at Dief, “it’s the only way _some_ of us do any exercise.” A short yip came from underneath the table.

"And what do you do in between sledding all over the Northwest Areas?"

"Territories," Fraser corrected with more amusement than annoyance.

"Territories."

"I'm an elementary school teacher. It's a small school."

Ray felt his instinct beginning to kick. Fraser was opening up." So how come you are down here? Vacation?"

"No." Fraser cracked his neck. "I have actually taken a sabbatical from teaching while I try to get my book published."

"Oh, so you’re a teacher **and** an author? Could it be that I've heard about it? Your book, I mean."

"Perhaps. It's only begun to be sold in bookstores. I haven't done much promotion as of yet though Ray, my editor, keeps hinting at something called 'the circuit' which is something I 'must do.’” Fraser wiggled the index and middle fingers of both hands.

"Well," Ray said amusedly, "Can you tell me the title? I've been known to crack a book open every other decade, you know?"

Fraser blushed and, whoa, wasn't that something up close? "It's called _DOWN with Love_."

"Ok. What is it about?"

"I am proposing the theory that maybe those who pursue romantic relationships are using those couplings as a type of barrier that keeps them from fulfilling a more altruistic potential." The switch to a professional-type of lingo was not lost on Ray. It sounded like an automatic response, almost like Fraser himself didn’t completely believed what he was saying.

"Hmm, so you're basically telling people that they are foolish for wanting to experience love?" On an impulse, Ray took a petit four and was inwardly pleased when he saw Fraser’s eyes focus on his mouth.

"Well, not really,” Fraser said as he licked his lips. “What I'm saying is that most people are often frustrated by what they think love is versus the reality of it. In addition, a lot of them think of themselves as failures if they aren't attached to another person.”

"And so, you are the anti-Cupid?"

Fraser tugged an ear. He looked like he was considering Ray’s question, not to give him some witty answer, but the actual truth. "In a manner of speaking. Especially when people mix the term of love with sexual congress."

"What does politics have to do with all this?"

"Sexual congress as in: intimate relations." Fraser rubbed an eyebrow. Ray wasn't sure whether or not he liked to see him squirm so, he pulled back.

"Are you an advocate for celibacy? Not that's there's anything wrong with that if that's your deal. But I don't know many people who would be cool with the idea of not rubbing bumpy bits with others for the rest of their lives."

"My idea of love not being the apex of intrapersonal relations does not preclude consenting adults sharing a bed."

"Is that a fact?" Ray's eyebrows shot up. Maybe it was time to sit down and read Stella’s copy of the book.

"Erm, well, there are ways to enjoy the physical without having to damage the heart."

Bingo!

Ray let some of his excitement at hearing this show. “Tell me, how much of what you preach do you actually practice?"

"I don't . . . that is, I haven't had many chances to do so. The community where I live is less than 4,000 people to begin with. Everyone gossips in small towns, but that's not important. What's important is that I've also been spending most, if not all, of my free time working with both my agent and my editor on getting published. "

"It's an interesting idea. I'll give you that."

Fraser still looked wary.

Ray took the opportunity to finish the rest of his tea. “So, who’s the inspiration? Or is that a Canadian State secret?”

“Well, not exactly.” Fraser was flipping the butter knife in his hands. “You might have not heard about it down here in the US. I--”

Ray cell phone’s vibrations interrupted him. “Sorry,” he said as he looked at the screen. **Stella** it blinked. Talk about bad timing. "Uh, excuse me, I have to take this. I'll be right back." Ray got up and went outside the door. "Yeah?"

"Ray, how is it going with Fraser? Anywhere near getting something that will help you deliver the article?"

"I'm with him right now, Stell." He didn’t soften his voice. It would have taken perhaps one more cup of tea and Fraser would have spilled it all.

"Oh, well, have you've got something?"

"I—I'm not sure just yet. Plus I think whatever groove we were on was interrupted by you calling me."

"Sorry. I'll let you go." There was something on Stella's tone that took his instinct’s shoulders and began shaking it.

"Something's up, Stella. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm not feeling too sure about going ahead with this-"

And his mind flashed back to finding Stella IMing with someone on that Friday night so long ago. Two plus two equaled his instinct. "It's Vecchio, isn't it?"

"Well, we went to dinner last night and he was_ so_ earnest, so happy for Fraser and it's not as if I'm getting cold feet, but I do think you have to be very careful."

Ray rolled his eyes. She_ liked_ Vecchio. The style pig.

"I'll be careful, ok? Now, let me get going before Fraser gets suspicious." He hung up and headed back inside.

Fraser was staring at the sole remaining scone when Ray got back to the table. "Is something the matter, Steve?"

He looked into those steel blue eyes and kicked himself as soon as he began to open his mouth. "No. It was my boss calling to remind me about some tune-ups."

Maybe Fraser misinterpreted what he was saying because next thing Ray knew, he was being told that Fraser had a meeting with his assistant and that tea was lovely. He was even thanked kindly.

Seeing how they couldn't keep 'bumping' into each other, Ray gave Fraser his actual cell phone number and dangled the very enticing idea of going to a hockey game three days later. "Ice, the Leafs, the Blackhawks, ice, what promises to be a very cool game, did I mentioned the ice? I think you'll feel right at home."

Fraser thanked him again and gave Ray the number to his hotel and his room number.

After they parted ways, Ray realized he had actually enjoyed himself for the first time in a long while. He didn’t want to think about that too much so he went to the 43rd Street boxing gym to work on his frustration.

***~*~*~***

The hockey match was a total success. Well, for the Blackhawks at least. Ray thought he had been very well behaved by not bringing up the fact that the final score had been 5-1 every ten seconds like he wanted to. He had ordered a beer for himself (and was actually glad that Fraser was not a drinker because the concession stand prices were like mini-mortgages) and a bag of popcorn for his non-date.

Two days later, Ray and Fraser went to the Ping Tom Memorial park and had something of a picnic. Dief ran around in between being petted by a million and one kids and had who knows how many hotdogs. "I know you think it's great right now, but just you wait until you start digestion," Fraser scolded the half-wolf.

Ray, who was quasi-sprawled on the fleece blanket, rose up on his elbows. "It's Saturday and we're in the park, Frase, let the wolf off the hook this once." He could have sworn Dief wagged his tail in thanks.

***~*~*~***

Even though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, having non-dates with Fraser was the most fun he had had since so long that he couldn’t even remember. In spite of all that, Ray would still feel a flutter in his stomach whenever he not-asked Fraser out.

It was Wednesday morning when his article about Senator Riksham’s sexual escapades broke. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about it. Stella was happy and even Stella’s dad had given the Senator a cold shoulder for being such a hypocrite. Ray felt like celebrating and wasn’t aware he had called Fraser until the other man said hello.

"Hey, Fraser, how do feel about boxing?" Ray grimaced at his ill-mannered greeting, but he was also dreading hearing a negative coming from Fraser’s lips.

"Feel? Whatever do you mean, Steve?" He sounded puzzled.

"Well, do you like watching fights?"

"Ah. And yes, I do," he answered with obvious relief. "As long as they are officially sanctioned."

"Greatness." Ray punched through the air a couple of times in a very graceful manner.

"Pugilism has always been the divide between art and sport."

"Pugil . . . Oh, yeah, I see what you mean." Ray snorted. "Well, you can watch a former protégé’s pugilistic honour if you can spend some time with me tonight instead of with your book."

Fraser hmmed. "I think something can be worked out. By the way, what do mean by protégé? You never told me you had won any boxing matches."

"Eh." Ray shrugged a shoulder. "It's not as if I ever won any kind of Golden Gloves but, I did spend some time in the ring." He swayed to and fro for a couple of breaths. "Had to leave it when . . . ." He caught himself before spilling about writing that article on Coach Devlin, drugs and corruption in one of the most important amateur boxing gyms. He continued before Fraser started to sniff around the edges of _that_ story. "Anyways, it’s all in the past. The point is that I have followed the career of the first and so far only junior boxing champ I have ever mentored. He's fighting over at Ringside tomorrow and I want to show a bit of support."

"I would be delighted, Steve."

The match proved to be a good one. Levon was moving swiftly around the ring and actually landing some really good punches, Ray thought with equal parts pride and regret. It was great to see that the whole experience with Coach Devlin had not soured him. On the other hand, he found himself wishing he could have kept by the young man's side every step of the way instead of letting their mentor-protégé relationship cool down until they were less than acquaintances.

Fraser kept making comments and even gasped when Levon punched Grodier so hard that he actually knocked him out.

The evening had ended as hands off as all their previous non-dates had. Fraser waved good-bye to Ray and thanked him for the outing before stepping into the hotel lobby. It was getting harder and harder to keep things chaste. Between the lip-licking, the very minimal personal space they had between them and the overall sense of feeling like a world class crud for pushing at Fraser, for **lying**, Ray figured out something had to give and soon.

***~*~*~***

Mid-morning on Thursday had a cloudless sky. However, it didn’t matter how perfect of a day it was for Ray was feeling morose. He had begun to work on his cover article in full attack mode. Two hours later, he could no longer deny that most of it amounted to near gibberish, as there was no oomph, nothing that would help the reader understand why he thought Fraser was selling a faulty idea.

His mind drifted towards the man he had been actively—though chastely—dating. The only person, for that matter, who he was actually pursuing. A sideways smile appeared on his face. Who would have thought that _he_ would be enjoying himself seeing someone without bringing sex into the equation?

They hadn't planned anything for that day and Ray was thinking that it was time to really start digging at Fraser's past. He picked up his cell phone and dialed the now-memorized number.

"Benton Fraser's phone, Mr. Turnbull speaking."

"Hello?" He coughed. "Can I talk to Fraser?"

"And whom may I say is calling?" The surly tone made Ray smile.

"Tell him it's a man calling him about tea." He could hear the forced exhale coming from Fraser's assistant. It tickled him to find annoyance in the one man who spent all his time with Fraser other than Ray and Vecchio.

"One moment please." A slight hiss crackled through the cell phone as Turnbull, most probably, placed a hand on the speaker. Ray cracked his knuckles.

Fraser came to the phone, his voice happy. "Steve?"

"One and the same, Frase." He could almost see Fraser's beautiful smile.

"How are you?"

"Well, I'm ok, I guess. It's kinda quiet here at work and I was wondering . . . ahem, that is, if you're not doing anything important at the moment, if you'd like to hang out?"

"Right now?"

"No time like the present."

"Well, I have an appointment uptown in about twenty minutes but after that...Hold on." More muffled sounds. "Yes, after that my schedule is wide open. What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, nothing major. I just want you . . . um, want you to go somewhere with me."

"Would I have to go back to the hotel?"

"We'll be indoors so, you don’t have to change clothes if you don’t want to. I can pick you up at the hotel?" He took his pen and doodled on that morning's Tribune. There was no way he would show up anywhere in the vicinity of the Frobisher building unless he wanted his cover blown. "But I don't think we can take Dief with us. So, there's that."

"How about we meet at five p.m. then? That ought to give me enough time to walk and feed Dief in case I return late."

Ray had the strange feeling that Fraser was hinting at the two of them getting horizontal, but quickly dismissed it.

"That’s in,” he looked at his watch, “a little over two hours. Coolness. You've got yourself a deal."

Ray had had just enough time to head home for a shower and a change of clothes. It wouldn’t do to wear _New and Next_\- type of clothes. Not if he wanted Fraser to continue thinking of him as ‘Steve’.

He picked a very lickable—God how was it that he made plaid so fucking hot—Fraser from his hotel and headed east.

"So, where are we going, Steve? Or is it an absolute surprise?" Fraser's eyes twinkled with some mischief.

"We're going to the Daley Bi." Ray had thought of making some sexy remark. In all their non-dates, neither man had talked about romance and former bumpy bits partners. Ray was proud to have been so damn patient, but the time to call Fraser’s bluff was in the horizon.

Fraser swallowed almost loud enough to echo inside the GTO. "Pardon me?"

"The Daley Bi-Centennial Park. I was thinking you might get a kick out of doing a few laps on the ice."

"Ah." Fraser tugged at his sweater's collar. Ray glanced over to his passenger for a beat before looking back at the road. He filed the mildly uncomfortable look in Fraser’s face for later.

They managed to play a few one-on-one rounds of hockey. Fraser was a natural on the ice, but Ray wasn’t a slouch either.

Afterward, they went back to the Little Cup. There was something about that place that made the both of them relax. Ray was hoping Fraser would finally tell him _something_ worth writing about.

Their conversation turned, naturally, toward hockey games and favourite players. Ray let it go on for longer than he would have wanted. He had figured out that Fraser wasn’t so quick with the non-lying if Ray changed the topic of conversation all of the sudden. Ray was a ninja like that."So, you've never told me what got you on the whole anti-love thing." Ray tilted his cup of Jasmine tea.

Fraser tugged his left ear, licked his lips and rubbed his right eyebrow in quick succession. Ray wanted to lean forward, this was **it**, but he also knew how quickly Fraser could close down. Fraser opened his mouth, cleared his throat and had a sip of his Lotus tea. For a moment, Ray thought that he was going to be cussed out, it was rude to sic on him so suddenly, but he only had one more week before turning the article in. Finally, he heard the other man do a slow exhale and start talking.

"In—in 1985, I was heading home fresh from finishing my Master's over at the University of Alberta. Rather than fly to Inuvik non-stop, I opted to drive myself home and spend a few days here and there along the way. A week into my sojourn, I was a day away from Yellowknife, when I came across a mesmerizingly beautiful woman." Fraser's eyes had a dreamy quality to them just then. "Her name was Victoria Metcalf and, unbeknown to me, she was an Alaskan bank robber. A month earlier, she had driven the getaway car in a robbery that netted her gang the plum sum of $250, 000. The second member of her gang caught pneumonia and died. She had shot and killed the other one after setting up an innocent truck driver in a scheme that ended in the truck driver's suicide.

“She was hitch-hiking along the highway. The snow was light, though the weather forecast said to expect heavy snowstorms. I offered her a ride, fearing for her safety. Unluckily for us, or rather me, the roads were extremely icy. In addition, the weather grew worse some 60 kilometers later, with a fierce snow storm taking away most of our visibility. The car swerved and fell into a ravine. It was too dangerous to even attempt leaving the vehicle, no one else would be so foolhardy as to attempt driving, so, we opted to stay in and keep as warm as we possibly could.

“I don't know why, but eventually I realized that we were swirling into death. It was so cold and she was so frail, or at least, she looked that way to me. I started talking to her, telling her all of the stories I could remember until my voice grew hoarse and I could only whisper to her.

“Victoria started talking just then. Or not really talking. She was saying the same poem over and over. We stayed inside that car at the bottom of a bank for over two days. Half-delirious with both cold and hunger, I thought what I was experiencing _with_ her, that feverish slip unto death, was the closest I would ever get to loving someone. Foolishly, too, I thought she loved me.

“The storm passed, as storms are known to do, and we were able to not only get out of our car, but find sustenance in an empty cabin that was about half a day away. I am still surprised, looking back, that we didn't get sick from eating nearly everything that was in the pantry.

“That night we bared ourselves to one another.

“Afterward, sweat cooling off our bodies and an almost tangible feeling of complete contentment in both our spirits, she felt sure enough about me to confess that not only was she a criminal, but that she was a fugitive as well. I was shocked, naive me, and angry.

“She started to tell me that everything we had had been real, but I had already begun to see that my feelings had gotten clouded.

“I fell into uneasy sleep.

“When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. I never saw her again.

“I headed back to my car, picked up my backpack and managed to hitch a ride back to Yellowknife where I was able to give a statement to the authorities about Victoria and where I thought she was headed next.

“She was caught a week later in Hay River, eventually tried and convicted.” Fraser paused, as his eyes got cloudy.

"Victoria Metcalf died in prison, a victim of poisoning. To date, I am still not sure whether or not it was self-inflicted."

"Oh." Ray didn't know what else to say. The amount of guilt Fraser must have felt then, must_ still_ be feeling had to be tremendous. He reached out with both hands and squeezed Fraser’s. “I . . . I was with the same person for more than 15 years. We had been kids when we first met and, I guess, we, or maybe I, believed we were going to be together for the long haul, you know?”

Fraser was silent but he looked calm, relieved even, as if a great weight had been removed.

“Didn’t work out in the long run. We,” Ray cleared his throat, “we wanted different things. And it hurt more than I could ever imagine, but the pain has lessened and we both have been able to move on.”

Fraser cracked his neck. “Afterward, I—I tried to, as you say, ‘move on’. So it happened that a . . . a, ah, male acquaintance,” and here, Fraser looked at him fearfully as if Ray was going to throw some ‘phobic slur on his face or punch his lights out, “decided to look me up. We . . . w—we gave into some type of relationship, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that I was unable to open my heart. I apologized to him, especially because he had been willing, eager even, to be public about our relationship. Even if, as we both worried, it would cost him his hockey career. He left a few days earlier than originally planned. It was then, when I began thinking about how fragile love can be and how some of us are just not—not meant for it.”

ldquo;Things have a way of turning out ok, you’ll see.” Ray squeezed Fraser’s hands once again. “I’m glad you told me.” The tender intimacy of the act made him feel like the biggest fake ever despite having meant everything he had said. He let go of the hands and reached for his coat. “C’mon, let me take you home.”

Both men were quiet during the drive back to Fraser’s hotel. Head tilted back against the seat, Fraser looked exhausted. Ray figured there weren’t many people he’d told the fucked-up story of his non-romances. For his part, he was feeling like the most rotten person in the entire universe.

***~*~*~***

Ray was sitting in his office the next morning, a sad smirk on his lips, flipping through the many photos of Fraser, Dief, himself and Fraser that he had in his cell phone, when an 'ahem' cut through the daydreaming. Closing the application and putting the cell phone away, he took his feet off his desk. "Yes, Stella?"

She was looking at him as if she would have given almost anything to see what was in his mind. "Everything ok?" The dark red dress she was wearing made her look like one of those Viking ladies who take warriors' souls to the afterlife.

He could _feel_ the weight behind those words. It was almost as if she was asking about his well-being, the state of the story and whether or not he was considering chucking the whole thing all at once.

"Yeah." He took of his glasses. "I'm just thinking."

"About?"

"I think the expose is coming to a close." Ray knew he had a sour look on his face, but he didn’t care.

"But you haven't figured much out!" The editrix inside Stella finally showed up. "Based on what you've told me, the article works better as some type of fluff piece where the reader would learn that two men dating don't do anything other than what straight folks do."

He chuckled. "Talking about you and Vecchio?"

"Not pertinent to this," Stella retorted. "However I do or do not spend my personal time stopped being your business long time ago, Ray."

"I know." He exhaled. "Didn't mean to pick at anything, Stell. I'm just . . . I mean, this is all kinds of messed up right?"

She looked at him with pity then. "At this point, all you have left is getting the scoop and writing the article. To expect more would be crazy."

"Tonight then,” he said trying to keep the resigned tone outside of his voice as much as he could. "It's going down tonight."

She bit her lower lip and nodded her head before turning around and leaving him alone.

***~*~*~***

Later that day, Ray called Fraser and told him to wear his best duds. They were going dancing.

Fraser sounded as nervous as if he had suggested going bungee-jumping in the nude. "What?"

“Dancing, you know, swaying with the music in a public venue?” Ray couldn’t hide most of his amusement at hearing Fraser’s anxiety. He found it endearing.

"I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of rhythm, Steve. Maybe I can get a rain credit?"

"You mean rain check?"

An odd pause followed. “Hello, Frase?”

He heard a cough. "Oh, rain check. Yes, I meant rain check!"

"No can do, Benton-Buddy. Just imagine: you, _moi_, the Crystal Ballroom . . . ."

"Do we have to dance?" Fraser was almost whining which threw Ray for a curve. The guy could face all sorts of ups and downs but not something fun like dancing?

"I know it sounds wacky but I would say yes. We don't have to if you think it’ll be too much though. How about we check it out, see what's shaking and head elsewhere if you're really uncomfortable?"

Another gap followed. Ray heard a bark in the distance. It seemed like Dief, at least, was egging Fraser on. “That sounds like a sensible plan, Steve.”

***~*~*~***

Later that evening, Fraser looked classy in a dark brown suit and light brown shirt. “My friend Ray suggested that I had to buy a couple of what he calls ‘dressy suits’ for when I have to do interviews,” Fraser said red-faced. “Apparently, plaid shirts and jeans only go so far apparel-wise.” He stared at the blond man. “Are those new glasses, Steve?”

Ray smiled at him. He himself was wearing a slate gray suit with a dark blue shirt. This was **the** night and he had to be irresistible. “Uh, yeah. My old pair finally died an undignified death yesterday,” he answered as he pushed the black-rimmed eyewear up his nose. His stomach was churning something furious, but he kept going. "Can we make a pit stop?" Ray said, trying very hard to hide his nervousness. "I promised a friend I would check in on his turtle. He left town earlier today. I think he's afraid the turtle will end up having a house party or something."

Fraser looked like he considered the strangeness of the request, but didn't think there was any dangerous angle to it. "Ok, Steve. I'm sure the dancing can wait a bit longer. Reptiles are amongst the easiest animals to have as pets."

"Yeah, I guess, Fraser. But I dunno if they are as fun as a half-wolf." A wink followed which made Fraser's face grow red. They drove the rest of the way in a neutral silence.

“Here we are,” Ray said as he parked on the street instead of his usual spot in the building’s garage. He fought the urge to roll his shoulders as soon as he stepped out of his car since he really didn’t want to tip off Fraser to anything hinky. Rather than make a production of being ‘confused’ about which apartment was his friend’s, he opted to lead Fraser up the stairs to the third floor, aiming for a casual tone and a relaxed pace as they reached apartment 303.

A note was on the door. "Oh, look, my friend says there is a tropical fruit salad he bought earlier today in the fridge but didn't take with him. He says we could have some."

Fraser licked his lips at the tempting offer. Yup, Ray sure had the Canadian’s number. One of the few things he knew Fraser must have liked about being here was the fact that there were all kinds of fresh produce available in Chicago, year round. Him being someone who could stand as the poster boy for healthy living and all.

"I would be happy to partake of the salad if you think your friend wouldn't mind."

If Ray wore a mustache, he would have tried really, really hard not to twirl it at that very moment. "Nah, I don’t think he’d mind," he shook his head. "He’s not much of a health nut, you know?" Ray took the key that was taped to the note and opened the door.

Everything about the apartment indicated that its most current tenant was an unmarried man with a haphazard way of cleanliness. A sneaker outside the bedroom door, which was visible from the kitchen, several stacks of CDs and DVDs on the dining room table, a few copies of Boxing World stacked next to the telephone in the kitchen . . . .

Ray walked towards a terrarium and made a show of looking at his own turtle. For once in his life, he was glad he didn’t have something excitable like a dog for a pet. "Pepperoni looks okay." His future dancing partner gave him a crooked smile. "That's, um, that's the name of the turtle."

"Is your friend Italian by any chance?"

"Huh?" He made a face. "No. I think it's just that he really likes pizza." Clasping his two hands, he, for lack of a better word, shimmied towards the refrigerator. He took out a platter with mango, pineapple, kiwi and melon slices he had bought earlier that day at one of those super-fancy, everything organic supermarkets. "You want?"

Fraser’s eyes zeroed in on the tropical fruits. He sniffed the air, most probably taking in the aroma of the food, and simply nodded before heading towards the sofa and sitting down. Ray took the opportunity to turn the digital recorder in his coat’s pocket on. He then walked to the living room, took off his coat and placed it on the sofa.

“Sorry. It’s getting hot and I was feeling clumsy,” he said after returning from the kitchen, tray in hand, and placing it on the coffee table.

“I’m thirsty, Steve. May I have some water?” Fraser’s voice did sound rough. Like he had walked miles and miles in the desert.

“Sure, Frase. One glass of water coming up.” He headed back to the kitchen and opened his fridge again. “Um, bottled water ok?”

“Yes, Steve. Thank you.” For once, Fraser sounded shaken.

Ray did a quick inhale and exhale before going back to the living room. It was true that he wanted this over with, but knowing how shitty the situation could get didn’t make things any easier. Whatever made him think that he could do unmask Fraser in his own apartment? He had initially thought that being in his turf would have helped him focus. Unfortunately, he realized the result was the complete opposite of that. "I know many people like to dip them in honey or some type of jelly, but I like them raw, you know?" Ray cringed at the cheesiness of that line and was relieved to see that his verbal faux-pas distracted Fraser. He felt the other man’s eyes grow hot as he bent over the dish, took a mango slice and slurped it up. "It's ripe."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow as his friend sat next to him on the sofa. Ray wondered if Fraser was feeling the same kind of prickling all over. Excited and scared. They were staring at each other. . . .

He got a load of Fraser, really looked at him, and that now-familiar flutter in his stomach turned into a tornado. Sliding even closer though slowly, giving Fraser enough time to call his own bluff, Ray became hyper-aware of what was about to happen, what _both_ of them wanted to happen. He placed a hand on Fraser’s knee. “Fraser. Frase. Benton . . . ok?”

“Ben, call me Ben,” Fraser whispered as, with a slightly trembling hand, he touched Ray’s face and tugged him forward.

"Ben." Ray felt hot breath on his lips. "Tell me what you are feeling. Because you_ do_ feel it, right?"

“I—I’m beginning to feel, Steve. You . . . .” Fraser said nothing more as their lips pressed against one another. Every part of Ray’s body seemed to go sideways and backwards. Fraser was giving it his all, whimpering, a low moan of pleasure that Ray felt all the way to his cock. This! This was what Fraser had been holding back all this time!

A pleasant dizziness almost made him forget everything about the article. He tapped into unknown reservoirs of willpower and began to soften the pressure of his mouth on Fraser’s.” You are beginning to feel things right, Ben?” He blinked rapidly. His body felt hot and Fraser’s . . . well, Fraser’s was absolutely scorching. They kissed again, frantic; Ray thought he was going to faint. Fraser’s arms came around, a firm hand caressing his nape while the other lay on the lower back. Ray was holding Fraser’s face, the tips of his fingers brushing against the dark brown curls at the temples. He opened his mouth and felt Fraser’s tongue slide against his.

All of the sudden, he felt Fraser just stop and pull them apart. "Yes. No. I mean, ah, I do feel, but I don't know if you know who I am."

“I know _who_ you are, Ben. You are Benton Fraser, author of the anti-romance hardcover _DONE with Love_ and now you have to admit that I’ve shown you how you don’t really believe in what you’ve preached in your book. Me, however, I'm not who you think I am. My real name is . . ."

"S.R. Kowalski," Fraser interrupted. His voice had begun to turn icy and Ray could only stare back at him, mouth agape, as he continued. "You are the star journalist for _New and Next_ magazine. Five months ago, my editor, one Ray Vecchio had tried, in conjunction with Stella Kowalski, your magazine's editor-in-chief _and _ex-wife, to have you and I sit down for an interview.

“I do not know why, maybe you thought the subject ridiculous, but you chose to dismiss me. Aided by some very original resources," he thought of Frannie's connections as well as Turnbull's initiative, "I was able to establish solid publicity elsewhere at which point I figured you would become interested enough in who I was. It was then when you might have concocted this silly plan to woo me until I would confess my feelings for you.” He grabbed Ray’s arm when the blond man tried to search his coat’s pocket. “Unfortunately for you, I took the liberty of taking the digital recording device out of your pocket twenty minutes ago when you got up to get me water so, I'm afraid this conversation is not being recorded and therefore you have no proof of this conversation taking place."

Ray couldn't believe it. His head was spinning. "How—"

"It was the way you said ‘rain’ on that day we 'met'. In addition to when you said ‘rain check’ both the second time you wanted to postpone our interview and earlier today when you invited me to go dancing. Also, I found a not-so-blurry photograph in an obscure site about Pulitzer recipients."

"I figured you would have not wanted to do the interview for which you had stood me up _twice_, not after I had chastised you. The undercover idea was novel, I will admit. Also, I will confess that I felt attracted to you and didn’t think much of going along with your charade of Steve Chives, mechanic wooing me. I know it was flippant of me, perhaps even mean, but I wanted to show you that playing games never pays. Now, of course, that we've unmasked each other, I’ll have you know that I don't think this is going to work out. Good night." He stood up and walked out of the apartment.  
Ray stared at the closed door.

***~*~*~***

It was early in the afternoon sometime in the following week, when Ray figured out that his expose had petered out. Fraser had returned home up North, of course, and at that, Ray’s heart broke in more ways than one.

He had always persona non-grata over at the Frobisher building, probably because Vecchio had always wanted to be with Stella and had seen him as a very real threat to their relationship. In the Fraser aftermath, however, he couldn't even step into the lobby without someone telling him to leave the premises immediately or be arrested for trespassing.

Stella didn't talk to him for about a week. Vecchio had given her both cold shoulders in a very impressive move of solidarity with Ben. "He won't take my calls, has blocked me in the IM." She squinted at him, full of anger. "Ray, you've got to fix this!" Storming out of his apartment, Stella had taken all the chaotic energy with her.

Ray sank even further into the sofa. Maybe he could stay here, inside, until enough time would pass and everyone could forget he had ever existed.

He turned on his laptop and began to study all of his notes about Fraser, the book and the dates they had shared. A very small part of him still wanted to show the real Fraser to the world. He began typing, not really focusing on the meaning to what he was writing. Maybe a good story lay underneath the whole mess.

Four hours later, he stopped to brew some coffee and change into comfier sweats. His hands ached a little because he had learned his primitive way of typing on an Underwood, which meant that he had a tendency to press the keys harder than necessary. The pain was comforting, however, especially after sipping his fresh cup of joe while going over what he had written.

It was an expose, alright. Brutal but not vicious and _exacting_ without being too clinical. The subject was a new one however. For good or for worse, S.R. Kowalski was going to expose himself to the world.

He ran the spell check program, saved it and sent a copy to Stella's email.

She called him an hour later.

"Ray, I've just finished reading your article." She paused. "Are you sure about this?"

He sat back on the sofa and tilted his head for a couple of breaths before sitting upright. "No."

"So you mean to tell me that instead of seeing how much of a _hoax _Benton Fraser is, we are seeing the real you?"

"The new me, you mean."

"How is that?"

"New as in how this whole thing with Fraser helped me realize a few things."

"Well, Ray, I don't know—"

"Listen, Stella, could you print it? Consider it a love letter."

"To whom?"

"Do I really need to say it?’Cause that's going to make me feel way too girly for my own good."

Stella sighed. "Oh, Ray. Your heart is broken, isn't it?"

***~*~*~***

The issue had sold well. He had managed, after literally begging Vecchio's sister, to get Fraser's address in Canada and send him a copy.

Unfortunately, for him, the package returned unopened a "REFUSED DELIVERY" stamped on one side. It was big enough anyone could see it from outer space.

Ray stared at the package, seemingly for hours, until he felt lousy enough to think of going on a bender. He was grabbing his wallet and keys when the phone rang.

"Ray?" A woman's voice he quickly recognized as Frannie's came through the phone.

"Hey, Frannie. I'm sorry but I'm on my way out." She probably was going to tell him to leave Ben alone.

"No, wait. I—I know he sent your parcel back." The fact that she wasn't mentioning names raised Ray's hackles. He was hurting, that much was plain for everyone to see, but that didn't mean he was going to break either.

"Fraser. His name is Fraser. You can say his name, Frannie."

"Ok, well, I overheard Ray talking to Fraser late last night . . ." she paused, maybe testing how interested he was.

"Go on."

"And, God knows I wish he, I mean, Fraser was as miserable about loving me the way he seemed to loves you."

"How do you know he was miserable?" For a moment, he could imagine Frannie lifting a telephone extension and getting the scoop.

"They were on speakerphone. It was afterhours. Renf . . . um, Turnbull and I were doing some research in the archives. I was on my way to my desk to pick up my purse because we were going to order some take out. Maybe Ray didn't hear me. On any case, I caught the conversation halfway."

"Oh." He could picture Fraser talking about the sham and Vecchio egging him on hating him.

"So, I waited until they sounded like they were going to hang up before stepping out of the office carefully."

"And?"

"He's hurting, Ray. Same as you." She exhaled. "You have to go see him."

"Where? In end of the world, Canada? I dunno, Frannie, he made it pretty clear that the last person he'd want to see right now would be me." He opened and closed his hands in a desperate attempt not lose the thread of hope that was dangling in front of him.

"Ray, I'm telling you. At one time, I would have given _anything_ to have Fraser moping the way he is right now . . . ."

"And now?"

"There's someone else. But that's not the point. Just . . . can't you trust me when I tell you that you have to go up north and fight for him?"

"I—I'll see you around, Frannie. Bye.” The punching bag was calling his name. Maybe a few rounds with it would help him focus. He had been a rat, the biggest of all rats, and Fraser had loved him and he had managed to fuck things up in more ways than he could count. It wasn’t going to be easy.

"Good night, Ray. And think about what I've told you."

The truth was that Ray didn't have to think about much. He had made up his mind as soon as Frannie had told him that Fraser still had feelings for him.

He opened his browser and began plotting a route home.

***~*~*~***

Ray was colder than he had ever been, even underneath all those layers, so he knocked on the door with more force than necessary. It wouldn't do any good to anyone if he had come all the way up here just to freeze to death. It was only noon so, he wasn't sure if Ben was even home. Shoulders dropping at the thought, he was about to head back into town and see about getting a room somewhere when the door finally opened with a squeak that echoed everywhere. A good-looking petite blonde looked up at him with an edge of arrogance that felt familiar to Ray. "Um, hi. Where's Ben—Er, Fraser, I mean Fraser?"

"He went to seek the Hand of Franklin."

Aw, fuck. He was late! "He's getting married!? I mean, I know it's legal up here and everything."

"No," she answered as if he was in the first grade, "he's gone off on a quest to find the Franklin Expedition."

"Oh," Ray said feeling like a complete fool.

"And you are?" The blonde's protective tone was throwing Ray way off.

"I'm . . . a rat. Ray, Ray Kowalski." He stretched out a hand.

"Yeah, I've heard about you a lot. My name is Maggie Mackenzie. I'm Benton's sister."

Ray gulped as his stomach dropped all the way to the center of the earth. "Um, I came over here . . . I want—I want to patch things up with him."

Maybe she could see that he was being sincere or that he was really regretful of everything that went down in Chicago all those months ago. For whatever reason, she opened the door even wider. "Well, don't just stand there, Ray Kowalski, you're letting all the heat out."

Ray nodded in thanks before picking up his backpack and stepping through.

Maggie walked into the kitchen. "I reckon he'll be back later this week. For one thing, the ice will begin breaking soon. Also, I've accepted a teaching position over in Whitehorse which means that he'll be back to teaching full-time."

"Oh." Ray was glad he would have some time to get his thoughts in order before groveling in front of the one man he had fallen head over heels for.

"In the meantime," Maggie said as she returned with—bless her—a cup of coffee in hand, "you might help me do some repairs around here."

"Sure. Anything." He thought it might be helpful to get to know his one-time steady's family.

The next few days went by in a series of waking up at dawn, breakfast, roof mending, snowmobile engine repairing ("Benton's the one with the sled. I like speed," Maggie told him as she led him to the small garage) and learning as much about Ben as he could from his sister.

It was early morning on the sixth day since he had first arrived to Inuvik when it went down. Ray was in the kitchen, actually making some caribou stew, when he heard a series of barks followed by that voice that had made his toes curl many a night. He considered going out and facing him, but Maggie had borrowed his parka and hat to go into town so, he waited inside almost shivering with anticipation.

A thud on the porch and excited yips led Ray to turn the stove to low before putting his glasses on, step out of the kitchen and lean against the back of the sofa. There was a strange calm washing over him in spite of the enormity of what was about to happen.

"Diefenbaker, do behave! Maggie might still be resting. Quiet down or she might make you sleep in the barn with the other dogs!" The door opened. Fraser was looking all kinds of tasty: he was wearing a heavy coat with a fur trimmed hood and his face had more of a ten o'clock shadow. He was rough-looking. Ray's heart began to jump.

"Ray." Fraser's voice was colder than the wind that was swirling into the cabin. "What are you doing here?" He closed the door with some annoyance and began to take off layers as Dief happily trotted over to where Ray was.

"Hey, Dief. Miss me?" He crouched and began to scratch the half-wolf's ears all the while staring back at the still glaring Fraser. "Came to see you about, um . . . . Well, fuck. I'm sorry. I know it was a shitty thing to do what I did," he got up and kept walking until he was in front of the sweater-clad Canadian, "and I've kicked myself up and down Main Street for it. I'm here because I want us together."

Fraser squinted at him. "Is that so? Or are you looking forward to writing a sequel to your expose?"

"You mean MY expose, right? Didn't Vecchio tell you?"

"Tell me what?" The fact that Fraser might be unaware flared hope inside of him.

"I chucked the whole thing about you and decided to write about how lame I am and what I feel about you."

Fraser's gaze softened for a moment before his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

It was Ray's turn to stare back. "I _did_ send you a copy—which you returned. Unopened."

"I . . . I thought you had sent it as a way of showing me your triumph." Fraser said in a low tone. "Over me. Over my heart."

The fact that Fraser was getting sappy—well, sappy for Fraser—gave Ray the necessary strength to seek out and hold onto his hand. "I've been a fuck-up, Frase. I . . . I moped around for far longer than it was healthy once you hightailed it back here." Ray stopped, feeling more naked than ever. "I want us to give it a chance. We have something, always have, even back then when you called me Steve and I drank a million and one varieties of tea without making a fuss."

"Oh, Ray." Fraser placed his free hand on Ray's jaw, fingers rubbing against the journalist's stubble. The lazy stroking of his chin brought Ray to the memory of their first kiss, back in Chicago, and he shivered upon seeing Fraser becoming slightly undone once again.

"I've been such an idiot, Frase. Benton. Ben." Ray wrapped his arms around Ben's torso before rubbing his nose against the side of his neck. Concentrated Ben smell reached his nostrils and a small grunt escaped his throat. Manly, wild and all his. He placed brief kisses on Ben's exposed neck, wanting to bite and tease and lick and make up for all the mess that had blown up in Chicago.

"Ray," Ben moaned, "there's much we have to talk about—Oh, keep doing that—I—Ahhhh . . ."

"There will be enough time to talk, Benton," Ray growled without menace in between nibbling Ben's right ear, "I think we've waited long enough, don't you?"

"Time? You—you mean to stay?"

Ray nodded, eyes closed, as he became aware of Ben's breath tickling his ear, a happy grumble in between exhalations. He felt—rather than heard—Ben sighing as he pushed Ray's glasses to the top of the journalist's head before kissing him fiercely. Ray was so happy he felt upside down all over again.

After a few minutes of an honest-to-goodness make out session, Ray pulled back and focused on those iceberg-blue eyes. "Well, why the hell not? I'm yours. No question about it. Besides, I've already followed you to the end of the world. Cheesy as that sounds." He took off his glasses and placed them on the small table by the door. "Now, less talkin' and more rockin'."

***~*~*~***

ONE YEAR LATER

Ray stood outside their cabin, staring out into the heavens, wrapped in a wool blanket as the cold air bit his skin. He spread his left hand in front of him and looked at his wedding ring, half-expecting a wave of anxiety to begin stir up in his stomach. After all, he had done the whole marriage song and dance before only to watch it crumble to bits and pieces. Now he _had_ a husband in addition to being one.

Still, this past year hadn't been all kisses and rolls on the bed.

For starters, Ben had lived alone most of his life which meant that there were things he wasn't used to when it came to sharing his life with someone else. It took some time, just about enough, to smooth things out. Before too long, Ben relaxed to the point of not only—occasionally—being able to burp in front of Ray but also to be cranky and stubborn without feeling the need to apologize for being, well, human.

Ray, for his part, had absolutely refused to be completely dependent on his fiancée-turned-husband. Due to his friendly nature, he had been able to secure a freelance position at the local newspaper. It was, obviously, an absolutely different experience from his time working for Stella, but he earned enough dough to, at the very least, pay for the satellite dish.

Once word spread about Ben's new relationship, some of the locals bitched about having a queer teacher—like that would make a difference when it came to teaching the ABC's—but the majority of the community seemed to respect Ben and, as an extension, Ray. As far as Ray knew, they were the only out queers in the area though he had an inkling that the bartender over at the Polar Bar as well as a couple of trackers played for the home team as well.

The roar of his Jeep shook him out of his thoughts. "We've received a package from the States," Ben said after parking the car and stepping out of it.

"Who's the sender?" Ray had the vague wish that it would be from his parents. They hadn't said much about his new marriage other than a terse 'congratulations' and none-too-personal phone calls a few times per month. Sometimes, Ray worked hard at not feeling completely disappointed.

"It's from Francesca," Ben said before kissing Ray hello. He turned to Dief, who had trotted up to the two men from under the kitchen table, "No, it's not donuts. Or any pastries for that matter. Really, you would think we don't feed you." The half-wolf kept walking towards the nearby forest, tail standing up in aggravation.

Ray placed an arm around Ben's shoulders and gave him a playful kiss on the cheek. "He'll get over it, Ben, once dinner's ready. Now, let's go inside and open it. I've got to check on the stew."

***~*~*~***

"Well, I say, everyone is a writer nowadays," Ben said as he held a book in front of him.

Ray grinned at Ben's surly tone as he laid the plates on the table. "Yeah, who would've thought Frannie could be some kind of novelist? What's it called again?"

_"Vixen Red: My Adventure in International Loving."_ Ben almost made a face. "Kind of an outlandish title, no?"

"Maybe it's a roman a clef. All about her lust for you and her love for Turnbull and how she has to choose—"

"There's a letter inside." Ben interrupted, "It's addressed to both of us." He scanned the one page missive as Ray began serving the meal. "Oh, dear."

"What's wrong? Someone died?" Ray stood next to him and was puzzled by Ben's minor hesitation as he handed the letter over to him. He read the letter as fast as he could. "So Vecchio and Stella are a done deal." He put the letter on the table and stared off into the distance. "Huh."

"Ray?" Ben's left hand squeezed his shoulder. "Are you ok? I—I know you never got along with my editor . . . ah, and vice versa."

"I never thought they were serious, you know. Especially after you came back here. Feels a little strange knowing she's remarried just like I did, that's all." He looked first at the letter, a faint ache in his heart for all that he once had felt for Stella, and then at his wedding ring. The word _na zawsze_ was etched inside his while the same word—in Inuit instead of Polish—was written in Ben's. He interlaced his left hand fingers with Ben's. "Forever. That's us, right?"

Ben sweetly kissed his cheek before wrapping his arms around him. He nuzzled against Ray's nape, helping dissolve whatever tension the letter had brought along. "If you'll have me."

THE END


End file.
